Lift
by costellos
Summary: AU. Two strangers, a malfunctioning lift, and fate.
1. Chapter 1

"You shouldn't have another coffee, Ms. Lopez. It's getting late,"

Santana has been stood by the bay window watching Manhattan turn its lights off for two hours, drinking coffee and hanging her head out into the cold night air to smoke.

"Hannah, I don't give two shits. I need to get this presentation done," she replies harshly, rounding on her assistant as if it's her fault her deadline was shortened. And this is really, really important. "I won't lie to you, I want the promotion."

"I understand –"

"Then shut up."

She doesn't mean to be so rude, it just comes out. Her assistant reels, blinking behind her terribly fashionable oversized glasses.

"Ms. Lopez… It's almost twelve," Hannah looks at her watch nervously, discreetly glancing down at her phone in her pocket. Santana clocks it, and calculates her reply.

"Hannah, you can go. I know you have some midnight movie marathon with fucking Jim from advertising tonight," Hannah's eyes widen in shock. "I do actually listen to you sometimes. And you can go, honestly."

"Joe, from accounting…" Santana flicks her wrist, rolling her eyes at Hannah's words. "You have to leave in half an hour anyway, because that's when I ordered your cab for," Hannah winces in preparation for the Lopez onslaught detailing how even though she was her goddamn assistant it doesn't mean she can get involved in her life, who is she to tell Santana how much sleep she should be getting, who is she to tell her that her coffee intake isn't healthy and that a pack of cigarettes isn't a substitute for lunch, who is she to pass judgement on the little bottle of whiskey that sits in the second drawer of the desk they share.

It doesn't come. Santana sighs. "Fine. I'm only not murdering you because you organise my files colour-coded and I like that and no other PA has ever done it the way I like."

She was too tired to care, really, and that was why she hadn't shouted her dissent. Perhaps it was because she knew Hannah was right; she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she could barely walk in a straight line despite the caffeine fuelled desire to work. It wasn't going to be coherent, it wasn't going to blow anyone away, and it certainly wasn't going to be as imaginative or creative as everyone knew she was capable of. She needed to sleep, there and then.

Hannah smiles, biting her lip. "Thanks, Ms. Lopez. Email me what time I have to be in tomorrow. And for the record –"

"Hannah –"

"- even if you're practically a dead woman walking, your presentation will easily be the best."

She turns and leaves then, leaving Santana stood by the window, watching. She didn't know why she just said that. It's true, of course, she thinks as she calls the lift in the empty corridor and waits, tapping her foot. She couldn't imagine a better boss; not only was Santana already director of communications for one of the daughter branches of Avery Design and Execution – a nothing name, she thought – she was smart, fair and she made Hannah laugh. And it was little things; like Hannah would mention she loved After Eights, so for her birthday (which she wasn't expecting Santana to take notice of anyway) a huge box of them appeared on the desk. They didn't have a note, but she knew they were from Santana. Yeah, she's not as bad as everyone thinks, Hannah muses as she pulls her coat around her and swipes her card through the exit and sets off down the vast street to her cab.

Santana smacks her head against the window frame and groans.

This is bullshit. _Why am I even here? _she wonders, tapping her dry-marker on her left palm. She didn't actually know why she was there. She had a business degree with a side major in creative writing from NYU obtained last summer, and somehow she had ended up at some forgettable business producing forgettable presentations and winning forgettable grants to design fucking forgettable toys, cars, magazines… Her name would appear sometimes in the small print on the list of contributors, but the difference she made was the polar opposite of paramount, and it certainly didn't do anyone any good, really.

"I can't do this." She speaks out loud, like there's someone in the room listening to her. _What can't you do? _her subconscious asks, _this, or _this? The presentation, or the whole corporate life bullshit.

She was going to get the fuck out of here, go to a bar, drink until she forgot her own name, and the name of the woman underneath her. Discarding her last cigarette butt and slamming the window shut, she types a quick message to Quinn, her roommate.

**Won't be home until late tonight, fucking shitty ass day. Don't wait up x**

She tidies around the office and grabs the bottle of whiskey from her second drawer, shoving it in her bag. Yes, she was going to go to that new bar in lower east Manhattan Quinn and Kurt always talk about. She quickly googles the address as she strides down the corridor, jabbing the lift button several times over like she always does when she's in a rush. When it heaves into place and the doors slide open, she sighs again, but differently. Something close to content, she guesses, as she sinks further and further away from her office and her laptop and the rest of her stupid work. If she was drunk, she'd probably sing her goodbye.

The lift grinds to a halt on the 17th floor. _What the fuck? It's half twelve_, she thinks, wondering if there's been some malfunction with the calling system. Her meandering thoughts are interrupted and her mouth drops open at the woman who bustles into the tiny metal box, standing on her left side. Santana looks her up and down. From the heels that are a little too high for the office, to the slightly laddered tights and the strange tartan-y skirt, to her little black vest and plaid shirt over the top, to the bird charm hanging on a silver chain around her neck and the blonde curly hair bouncing around her shoulders. There's pen on her cheek and her lipstick is slightly smudged, and her beautiful blue eyes are darting around from side to side, betraying just how stressed this woman is. _Wait, beautiful? You're Santana Lopez, you don't crush on girls in lifts. You just don't. Your heart never, ever beats as quickly as it does – _she shakes her head abruptly when the woman looks away and reminds herself that this is a lift. There are rules. If it weren't for the fundamental ideal of complete silence, everything Santana knew would be in jeopardy.

For her part, the woman breathes heavily, looking down at the ground. _Wow, she must be even more stressed than I am. _She pulls out her phone and writes a message to Kurt, asking if he's out tonight.

She kind of wants to ask her if she's okay. But then she remembers that it doesn't really matter, nothing does, because there are millions of people who aren't okay and the comfort of a stranger is something that makes her own flesh crawl.

So they stand, side by side, eyes trained above them or below them as the lift bings with each floor it travels down. That is, until the lights dim and the lift itself stops moving abruptly and shakes a little between the 7th and 8th floors.

"Oh, for fucks sake," Santana says out loud before she can stop herself, and the blonde turns to look at her before looking worriedly at the staunchly closed lift doors.

"Fuck," she curses again. Fucking brilliant. Stuck in a goddamn lift with an absolute stranger at twelve in the morning.

* * *

Brittany S. Pierce is not happy. Nobody's listening to her in the big room with the stupid table, even though she knows exactly what she's talking about. They just have to listen properly.

"Right, Brittany… I understand what you're saying, it's just not possible!" the man on her left with the dumbest glasses she's ever seen raises his voice a little, belying his frustration.

His colleague nods. "It's just not feasible. You can't just use the same facilities and provide the same services people pay thousands of dollars for their children to benefit from for free to kids who can't afford it."

For the life of her, Brittany doesn't understand why not. She was a dance teacher, and the studio was free on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday nights. Why wouldn't they use it to teach more children how to dance?

"I'm sure that the parents at school would have something to say about the best dance teacher in New York offering her advice to people paying 80 dollars less than them per lesson,"

"It's not about that, Mark," she slams her hands on the table in a rare burst of anger. "It's about giving everyone the opportunity to try anything they want! If you really want, you can –"

"No, Brittany. It's not going to happen,"

"Manifest it as a charity project if you really want," she taps her pen agitatedly. "God knows it would do wonders for your PR. Mark Adams helps out the little guy. Mark Adams has a heart. Mark Adams is not just a greedy –"

"Brittany!" Jack almost shouts from across the table. "Enough."

And frankly, she _has_ had enough. A job one of the finer private performing arts academies, teaching dance to talented pupils all day every day was, on paper, her absolute dream. But having been thrown in at the deep end of all the complex politics, and 'it's not what you know, it's who you know', and 'it's not how you dance, it's how much money your father has', left her completely disillusioned and dispassionate about what she does.

She wants to help people, help people realise their dreams; and the way she sees it, that's all most people want. So why would she only help those whose parents can pay twenty thousand dollars a term?

"Mark Adams taken for a mug. Mark Adams lets down those who pay for his proffered services in the best performing education a child can have."

"Whatever, Mark." _Grow up, you pathetic little man_, she thinks, but she can't say it. Have some foresight. _What about when you're an old, old man, sitting alone in your huge apartment in Soho, drinking an incredibly expensive Scotch and knowing that your actions denied the happiness of hundreds of people._ Yeah, she's really mad.

"Look, Britt," Jack starts from the other side of the stupidly big conference table, the voice of reason. "If you can put together a proper application and logistics folder we can give it some proper thought. You're just not giving us enough to go on,"

She doesn't see why it's necessary, but she kind of gets it at the same time.

"Right. Okay. I'll just fit that in between classes with New York's most talented and precocious brats," her outburst comes before she can stop it, and she claps a hand over her mouth in shock.

"Go home," Jack replies, but not unkindly. "Get some sleep. I'll call Mike to cover your morning class. Don't worry about it," Mark sniffs, but inclines his head in agreement. She's guesses they're going to sleep in the plush lounge further down on their floor financed by the stupidest parents in New York, waiting on the call detailing the new entries for this term. It's coming from Paris, so they have to stay beside the phone anticipating its ringing when the sun comes up.

"Fine," she violently pushes herself away from the table, her mouth set in a thin angry line.

She sets off almost at a run down the corridor of the 17th floor, feeling the rhythm in her feet calm her down. She doesn't like to get mad, and she's happy to find the wave has passed by the time she reaches the lift. Not that she's expecting to share it with anyone; of course, it's twelve in the morning. She catches her reflection in the polished metal of the sliding doors, and sighs. She looks kind of squinky, and when the lift comes she bows her head as she steps in. She doesn't really like the enclosure.

_Holy shit. I'm not alone, _and she sneaks a look to her right and the poised woman who's staring steadfastly ahead of her. She catches a glimpse of dark hair trailing down her back, and of manicured nails tapping out a text message to somebody called Kurt. The tip for her right thumb is missing, Brittany notices, and she realises why as the woman finishes her text and chews it distractedly.

She wants to ask what she's doing here so late, and why she's fiddling with her own fingers like she's preoccupied. But she knows that women like this don't take kindly to being bothered or asked questions off the cuff by some unburdened liberal dance teacher, so she loudly sucks in her next breath and looks down to the ground, wishing that she could be out of there within a minute.

Suddenly, the lift darkens and Brittany's head snaps up as her companion curses. "Oh, for fucks sake," she says, before wincing and sharing eye contact with Brittany.

_She has pretty eyes, _Brittany thinks, before looking away desperately roving the lift to try and work out what's happening. It shakes and stops moving altogether, and the woman next to her with the dark eyes swears again.

"Fuck," this time, and Brittany's close to agreeing with her because she's properly realised that she's stuck, stuck in a lift with a woman she doesn't know in the small hours of the morning and there's nothing she can do about it. And she really, really hates small spaces.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**Go ON. Drop me a review. Figurative kisses.**

Brittany is the one to break the uncomfortable silence that has befallen the lift. "What's going on?" she ventures, assuming the woman stood opposite her works in this building all the time instead of once in a blue moon.

The woman looks around impatiently, as if she's waiting for the lift to creak back to life, her eyes widening incredulously at Brittany's question. "The lift broke down," Santana states. "We're stuck," she continues brusquely, folding her arms.

"Stuck?" the blonde shoots back. "Like, trapped?"

"I guess…" the confidence in Santana's voice wavers a little. _What the hell is this chick's deal?_

She's answered when Brittany pales profusely and stumbles a little where she stands. Almost subconsciously, Santana rushes forward to help her, and lowers her gently to the ground. She crouches awkwardly beside the hyperventilating blonde, wondering what the fuck she's going to do now; stuck in a lift with a kook who's – by the looks of things – afraid of small spaces. Finally, she decides to position herself cross legged with the woman huddled on the floor of the lift and rubs her back comfortingly yet uncomfortably.

"Thank fuck," she says accidentally out loud when, after several minutes, Brittany begins to calm down. "Uh, sorry…" she adds as the blonde shoots her a questioning look. _Wow, she has nice eyes. Like, lovely. Like I could get lost in them and – _no, Santana. Stop.

"No, I'm sorry… It's the whole, constricted thing… I just hate it." She's not properly over it because Santana can still see the sheen of sweat covering her face, her breathing is still slightly erratic and her jaw is clenched.

"It's not your fault," _Crap. A little more than that, Santana; the woman's a mess. _"Uh, you have nothing to worry about. It's not even that tiny in here. Look, look properly,"

She kicks off her heels and does a little run around the lift compartment. Brittany draws her legs closer to her chest and smiles, becoming a little more at ease with her surroundings as she calms. Until a single thought strikes her head, and her mind tumbles into overdrive once more.

"What about air?!" she shouts, her voice high and panicky.

"Air?" the Latina doesn't understand.

Brittany gestures wildly around her and shouts again. "What if we run out of air?! How long are we going to be in here?!"

Santana doesn't really know what to do. On one hand, she wants to roll her eyes and just sort of detach herself from the shaking figure of a female on the ground beneath her, but on the other hand she feels almost obliged to take care of her. She doesn't quite know why.

"Get up," she says gently.

"I… What for?"

"You need to give me a leg up," Santana directs her gaze to the vent in the top right hand corner of the lift. "So I can pull that thing out."

"Wait, out?" Brittany begins to breathe deeper, her restricted sense of rationality coming to the eventual conclusion that if she is to not get up and help this woman dismantle the lift she'll probably asphyxiate within the next ten minutes.

"Yeah. Come over here," Santana feels a little awkward handing out instructions to her blonde counterpart, but she figures that it'll get shit sorted faster.

Brittany slowly raises herself, and Santana finds herself wanting to help or even just offer some words of encouragement; instead settling for the same odd silence that had presided over them not two minutes previously, when she had first got in the lift. Brittany puts her hands together, meshing her fingers to create a surface the Latina can push off from. Santana raises her foot and places it on the right hand side of Brittany's 'platform', her stockings cool and sliding over the blonde's skin.

"Are you sure you're alright to hold me up?" she hesitates, recalling the significantly weakened woman curled up on the floor of the lift only five minutes ago.

"Yeah," Brittany replies simply. "You'd be surprised,"

And Santana is surprised when she counts to three and Brittany lifts her whole body weight easily, shifting her stance so she's almost still as she fiddles with the vent system, undoing the emergency screws and tossing the cover over her shoulder within thirty seconds.

Brittany can't help but look up. _Stop that_, her inner monologue chides her. _You're looking up a stranger's legs. What does it matter they're one of the best pairs of legs you've ever seen? Don't be such a pervert. _Brittany almost giggles at the bizarreness of the situation and at herself for letting her thoughts run away with her, like she always does. _No, really, stop it._

_Is she looking up my skirt? _the petite Latina Brittany holds thinks, chewing her lip as she unscrews the catches on the vent cover. _I'd look up my skirt. Hell, I'd probably look up her skirt. She did have nice legs. _Santana blinks furiously, trying to dispel the latest realisation she comes to. _No, really, stop it._

When the metallic plate clatters to the floor, Brittany's almost grateful to be lowering her companion to the ground because then it means she won't be all looming above her, her body daring Brittany to look.

They face each other, then, and Santana looks Brittany right in the eyes before clicking her tongue and focussing her gaze on the now uncovered vent. "Are you okay now?" _Do you - care?_

"I'm much better, thanks," Brittany smooths the hem of her skirt, pulling at the odd thread. She wants to look the woman right in the face, but she feels almost nervous.

Her chance is gone as the Latina unceremoniously dumps herself on the ground, leaning her head against the wall and stretching her crossed legs out. "Are _you_ alright?" she asks as Santana exhales heavily and closes her eyes.

"Just been a rough day, that's all. I'm tired," she opens her eyes to see Brittany mirroring her across the lift. "And we're going to be in here a while, I may as well get comfy." _Fuck, _she curses internally. _Why are you being so rude?_

Brittany seems a little perturbed by the slight anger disguised in the Latin's voice, but she presses on. "How come? What is it you do?" Santana looks at her incredulously. "What?"

"We're in a _lift. _You don't have to talk to me,"

"So? You'd rather spend this entire time in silence?"

Her words throw Santana a little, who sits up slightly straighter and brushes her hair from her eyes. "Okay," she says slowly. "You're right. And my job is shitty, boring and shitty another ten times, so I'd rather not talk about it."

_Shit, why did you do that again?! _She tries to save the conversation. "So what do you do?"

"I dance. Not like a stripper, but I dance and then I show other people how to dance."

"So, you're a teacher?"

"I'd rather not be, not at the moment," she lowers her gaze to the ground. "I just want to show people how to do it, you know what I mean? I can't teach, you can't teach it."

Santana has no fucking idea what she means, but she nods along supportively. Brittany carries on.

"And I'm supposed to only teach people who can afford the lessons but I don't _want _to, I just want to show everyone how to dance. And I don't get why I can't, it's all my pig-headed bosses fault."

"People fucking suck," Santana smiles. _What are you doing? You're being strange._

"Why are you smiling?"

Again, Santana is thrown. "Because," she thinks, hard. "It's like, ironic. People suck and if you know and accept it then you can laugh about it. So when something bad happens, you can think 'oh, it's okay, people are shitty', and laugh, and it makes it better."

Brittany pauses before responding. "Well, while I can't say I agree, I see where you're coming from. If it works for you, then it's smart,"

Santana chews her right thumbnail, thinking.

"So, what's your name, Ms. Irony?" Brittany grins, and Santana kisses her teeth before replying.

"Ha, ha. Santana, Santana Lopez. What about you, Ms. Witty?"

"Brittany S. Pierce. Nice to meet you, Santana." She crosses her legs and pushes the folds of her skirt between her legs. "You have a really lovely name,"

"Thanks. I chose it myself," she winks, just to let Brittany know she's only joking.

"Oh, my parents gave me mine… I don't really like it," she says, searching for a topic to talk about. She knows she wants to keep talking to this woman, but she doesn't really know _how_.

"My parents gave me mine, too, you goose." _Goose? Why don't you just end – it – all? _She pauses before adding, "About the only thing they ever actually gave me." _Crap. That wasn't supposed to happen. Are you actually drunk, or just completely shattered? Either way, you should shut up. You sound like a kid._

"Sorry?" Brittany doesn't really know what to say; only that she really wants to lean over and wrap the smaller woman in a hug. She does look very small, especially without her heels; with her hair tumbling over her shoulders and her dark eyes completely and utterly weary.

"No, I'm sorry," Santana clenches her fists in anger at herself. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm just really tired, like…" she lets her voice trail off. "What I meant to say was, how come you don't like your name? It's cute." _Are you flirting?_

"It's like Britney Spears," she sighs. "Everyone's always said it was stupid, but I feel like I'm destined to play second fiddle to her, you know? Like my whole life, I'll introduce myself as Brittany S. Pierce and people will think about Britney Spears, not me." She pouts.

Santana wants to giggle, but the blonde looks so downhearted she just _can't. _Instead, she finds Brittany's bright blue eyes and genuinely smiles for the first time in what feels like forever.

"It's not what I thought, Britt," she bites her nail again. "-ney, Brittney. I really like it. Your name," _It's okay. You can think she's cute; you're allowed. Anyway, why are you nervous? Stop biting your nails. _She shuts her eyes again, willing her train of thought to derail before she says something mortifying.

"Thank you, Santana!" the blonde appears to brighten immediately at Santana's clumsy words. "We should play a game,"

"A game?" Santana opens one of her eyes.

"Twenty questions. A get to know game!" Santana shifts uncomfortably, so Brittany tries again. _I need to keep talking to her. _"We might as well, we're going to be here ages," Santana furrows her brow. "Come on. Don't be a grumpus,"

"A grumpus?"

"A grump. Grouchy. Nobody likes a grumpus,"

"I'm not a grumpus!" Santana replies, her hand flying to her heart in mock offence. Brittany laughs with a lightness Santana finds fascinating.

"Prove it. What's your favourite colour?"

"Red." Santana bites her middle finger this time, completely unsure of what to make of this whole thing.

"What shade?"

"Is that one of the questions?"

"No. I'm just interested. There are loads of different colours within a colour –"

"Proper red. Brazen, full on red."

"Mine's light blue. Like the sky on a cold winter's morning, or your mom's old denim jacket when it was cool to have things super-stonewashed,"

"Thanks for the imagery. I was struggling."

It was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

**Thanks for the reviews so far! Totally love you all for reading this, too. Because I'm a total glutton for them however I would adore some more. Kisses.**

"Where are you from?" Brittany presses on, ignoring Santana's snide remark. For her part, the Latina feels like slapping herself in the face and just not talking ever again.

"Cow Town, Ohio. You?"

"Wow, Cow Town sounds pretty cool. Denver," the blonde replies airily, running her hands through her hair. She subconsciously begins checking for split ends, diverting her gaze away from Santana.

"Figures," Santana says with a smile, looking straight at the woman opposite her, taking in her loose shirt and her chipped painted nails. "You're one of those types."

"Those types?!" Brittany senses the new lightness in Santana's tone and feigns outrage, her mouth dropping open.

"Yeah, you know. Knit-your-owns, ambling types, the kind of people who go to the mountains for fun," Santana searches for the right words, twirling her right hand in the air. It's not very articulate, but it'll do.

"That's terribly presumptuous," Brittany smirks, folding her arms and settling back.

"How many tie-dye t-shirts do you own?" Santana shoots back, mimicking the blonde.

"Several. What's your point?"

Santana just smiles, her face cracking into a wide grin before she can stop herself.

"Oh, shut up. What's your favourite drink?"

"Lemonade or vodka. Sometimes both. Entirely depending on my mood," she pauses. "Mainly vodka. What's yours?"

"This week, it's cherryade. Sometimes it's lemonade, sometimes it's the crushed raspberry thing from Starbucks, sometimes it's chai tea."

"Chai tea?" Santana echoes, "What the fuck is that?"

"It's like, heaven in a cup… Like, cinnamon, and cardamom. Mmmm," Brittany relaxes against the hard metal of the lift wall, exhaling, daydreaming of chai tea.

Santana looks on with utter fascination. Brittany's still zoned out, the very concept of which she finds kind of wondrous. How can a person just stop thinking, just like that?

"Uh, Brittany?"

"Sorry. It's just, chai tea. You wouldn't understand,"

"Damn right I wouldn't, you hippy." Santana rolls the final word around her tongue and Brittany lightly slaps her leg.

"You're coming to the tea bar in Grenwich with me then. I can't have you walking around New York with such tea-related prejudices. It could get you into trouble."

"Mm. Thanks for looking out for me." The sarcasm drips from Santana's voice, and she curses her own crappy disposition for what feels like the umpteenth time that night.

"Shut up. What's your favourite food?"

Santana bites her lip, thinking. "I don't have one,"

Brittany's eyebrows shoot up into her floppy fringe. "No way!"

"Nah, I don't enjoy food. It's more a necessity,"

"What did you have for lunch?"

"Chicken salad," Santana lies in response. She did have a chicken salad, she just forgot to eat it.

"I totally love chicken. But my favourite food's probably oatmeal and raisin cookies –"

"This week?"

"Yeah, this week." Brittany slightly pokes her tongue out. "What's your favourite flavour of bubblegum?" _Is she flirting? _Santana wonders, trying to remember the last time she even had bubblegum.

"Lemon lime. Is yours cotton candy?"

"No, bacon."

"Interesting."

A silence slowly falls over the two of them sat in the lift. Brittany pulls at her hair, and Santana bites her bottom lip.

"So, Santana from Cow Town; what's your favourite song?"

"You Know I'm No Good." She hums the introduction, tapping out a beat on the wall closest to her.

"And are you any good?"

"Not at all. Nope, not at all, not for anyone," she lets out a low, hard chuckle. It's obvious that nothing is really funny. "What about you?"

"Good People, you know the one by Jack Johnson?" Brittany smiles blithly back at Santana, overlooking her self-disparaging comment.

_What kind of game is she playing? _"How many train wrecks do we need to see?" she sings lightly in response, looking to Brittany's reaction.

On cue, her bright blue eyes widen. "You know that song?"

"Of course. I was a student in New York; protests are as conventional as your morning coffee. We once listened to that song on repeat sat in a hotboxed tent in order to make a complex political point," she flushes a little, and looks away from Brittany, whose face has lit up with the cutest smile ever.

"I wasn't expecting that," the blonde admits, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Whose side are we on today, anyway?" Santana doesn't know what to say, letting Jack Johnson reply for her. Brittany smiles again, and she feels oddly warm and strangely happy that the blonde likes something about her. Not bothering with a verbal response, Brittany tugs her legs underneath her and crosses them, pushing her skirt down into the gap created; knitting her fingers and playing with her thumbs, she opens her mouth to ask another question.

Santana's phone blares out, killing and burying the moment in an instant. It's incredibly loud and incredibly obnoxious, and it doesn't help that Quinn changed her personal ringtone to 'My Milkshake', by Kelis.

She blushes furiously, spitting out a hasty 'excuse me' to her giggling counterpart and answering the call. Brittany grins and pulls out her own phone, texting her own roommate Sam, reminding him to lock the door before he went to bed because she was caught in a not-so-unfortunate predicament.

"Q –"

Quinn's shouting down the phone. The lift is so quiet, Brittany can hear every word. "Santana! I was just calling to –"

"Hurt my ears? Stop fucking shouting,"

"Oh, shit. I thought you'd be in a club –"

"No, and will you change your goddamn ringtone to something normal?"

Santana can almost see Quinn's semi-evil smirk. "Of course not. Anyway, I wanted to reiterate to you that when you come home smashed off your face –"

"Quinn –"

"Nu uh. You shush. I've made up the sofa so you don't wake me the fuck up trying to open your bedroom door and also so I can't hear your female lothario ways with fucking Kim from the bar –"

Brittany looks up, amused. Santana looks like she's about to explode. If she focuses, Brittany can see the steam emitting from her ears as she frantically attempts to turn the volume of the call down. "Quinn!"

"No, San, I'm sick of it! I have a huge ass project tomorrow and I'm not losing any sleep because of you getting wanky with some next hot blonde –"

Santana sighs deeply, her breath hitching and shaking with barely suppressed rage. "Quinn."

"What?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Santana can picture Quinn's eye roll. "Whatever. You're only mad cause it's true." As an afterthought, she adds, "Where are you, anyway?"

"Stuck in a lift," Santana grounds out, gritting her teeth.

"Oh, shit! They know you're there, right?" Quinn noisily and obliviously crunches a chocolate bar. "Are you by yourself?"

"They must do, yeah. I'll be out soon. No, I'm with –" she hesitates, "- Brittany. From Denver."

Brittany shouts, "Hey!"

"Yeah, Brittany." Santana inhales, staring at the top right hand corner of the lift as she listens to Quinn.

"Oh, that's cute. She cute?" Both of the women in the lift can hear the joke in Quinn's tone, and one of them giggles adorably and the other clenches her fist and tightens her grip on the phone in her hand.

"Fuck off, Quinn."

"Hang up then!"

"That's pathetic. You're 23 years old! Grow up,"

"No, you're pathetic!"

"I am hanging up. I'm hanging up right – fucking – now,"

"Text me when you're free," Quinn's tone suddenly serious, she continues. "And if it's really late, San, will you please find somewhere to crash? You know how important this is –"

"Yeah, Q. It's fine. Though I'm so unbelievably mad at you, you don't even understand,"

"I can imagine," Quinn chuckles. "Love you. Best friends for life. Have fun!"

Santana pulls the receiver away from her mouth and blows a raspberry into it, hanging up as she does so. Thoroughly embarrassed, she winces and looks up at Brittany.

"Sorry. She's a complete dick," Santana's face is beginning to return to its normal shade following the absolute mortification that was her phone call with Quinn. _Shit! She knows you're gay. _She studies Brittany's face intently, and sees only amusement and slight bewilderment. _Okay, so she obviously doesn't mind. But Quinn basically just called you a slut._

"It's fine." Brittany pauses, raising an eyebrow. "So, you're a female lothario?"

_I'm going to kill her. I am going to rip her apart with my bare hands. _Unable to stop herself, Santana curses in Spanish and smacks the floor. _Why do you care so much what this girl thinks of you anyway?_

"Uh oh. I guess it's a point of contention for the two of you." _I can see why. You're like the prettiest girl ever. Who wouldn't sleep with you? _Brittany wonders lazily, gently pulling her hair and twisting it between her fingers.

"Oh, god. Can we pretend that never happened?" Brittany just smiles back at the brunette, propping her head up with her right hand. "No? Okay."

"No, I'm all curious now." Brittany loves the look on the Latina's face when she's embarrassed. She burns a hole in the ground with her gaze, her hair falls over her eyes and the very tip of her nose turns extraordinarily red.

Santana won't look up at Brittany, muttering her answer to the bottom of the lift. "No. I'm going to murder Quinn. Don't hand me in, Britt."

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Brittany straightens up with a laugh. Santana looked like a pissed off teenager, pouting and frowning; and she thought it was kind of cute. "Don't keep pulling that face. The winds will change, and it'll get stuck like that." Satisfied with Santana's reluctant smile in response, she continues. "On with the game, then? We have the whole evening for me to discover the life of a female lothario." She can't resist making the little jibe, and she's unable to disguise her genuine interest in the grumpy woman opposite her.

"Of course," Santana distractedly bites her thumbnail, tugging at the corner, her mind tumbling with the various ways she was going to end Quinn Fabray's life; or at least ways she was going to piss her off when she got home. _First port of call_, she thought, _would be to bring back a hot blonde and ensure Quinn gets no sleep whatsoever. No, no, no, no. You don't even know if Brittany swings that way. And whether or not her hot liberal ass would be up for a night of beautifully loud lovemaking – no; stop. _She wanted a cigarette now, the stress of the past few minutes making her wish a tiny bit that she was back in her office, pacing and smoking out of the window.

"What scent is your shampoo?" Brittany blurts the first question that comes to mind, instantly berating herself for wasting one of her precious twenty. Neither of them are particularly counting.

"Um, coconut…"

"Mine's strawberry,"

"I hate strawberries. I take issue with the texture."

"The shampoo doesn't have any seeds in it, silly. They'd get caught in your hair. Plus, you don't eat it."

"Is it made with real strawberries?" Santana plays along, her good mood returning with each second she's in the company of one airy blonde.

"Surely that would be sticky?"

"Perhaps. I'll make it sometime and get back to you?"

Brittany nods and grins, hugging her arms to her chest.

"Where's your favourite place in the whole wide world, then, Santana?"

_tbc._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Other than right here, right now?" Santana winks and kisses the air in front of her, Brittany blushing despite herself. "Sorry," she continues, laughter playing across her lips. "I couldn't help myself."

"Uh huh. Now answer the question,"

Santana gasps exaggeratedly. "Aren't you going to say it back?" Her mouth hangs open so her front teeth rest on her bottom lip, drawing Brittany's attention to the cherry-red lipstick adorning them.

_Wow. She's hot. _Brittany blushes and grins unashamedly before responding. "You haven't asked me yet!"

"Fine. My favourite place is London,"

"Why?"

"It's like New York, but the subway is cleaner and the people are grumpier. I studied there for a year after I hightailed it out of Cow Town," she explains, feeling oddly warm at Brittany's encouraging smile. "What about you?"

"Right here, right now." She blows Santana a kiss and wonders whether or not she's being ironic, which is something she's never really caught the hang of.

Santana presses her right hand to her heart and sighs. "So sweet. So, so sweet."

"But really, it's Luang –"

"Prabang?" Santana interrupts, perking up from her slumped position.

"Yeah! In Laos? How did _you _know about it?" Brittany winces almost the second the words leave her mouth and a little ghost of hurt crosses Santana's face. She wasn't thinking, and she curses inwardly. "I mean, because you were saying about my type, and that –"

"Brittany," Santana says, any offence at Brittany's comment quickly covered up by her trademark fake-moderate-smile. "It's fine. I booked the trip one evening with Quinn when we'd both been at the wine and were feeling some epiphanies and real _meaning _to our menial little lives coming our way. I didn't mean it. We actually went to Phuket the week before and spent most of the time drying up while finding ourselves in the depths of the Mekong River,"

"Wow," Brittany says out loud, nodding her head and sitting up. "I went with –"

"A few friends on a backpacking trip around south-east Asia. Please tell me you wore shoes while you were out there," the Latina replies playfully, folding her arms.

Brittany shifts, her eyes widening. "Why should I have worn shoes?"

"There were a shitload of gravestone-hippy-toes out there. I saw this Australian girl and I just wanted to vomit all over her crusty feet, and it wasn't even alcohol poisoning. Quinn actually burst into tears when she saw this guy's toenail just fall off in our lodge,"

Brittany laughs properly, fully, and it fills the whole lift until Santana finds herself smiling properly too. Her ongoing silence is answer enough for the smaller woman, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Gross. Did you have dreads by the end, too?"

"Are you my stalker?" Brittany shoots back, giggling. "So I take it wasn't the place for you?"

Santana debates for a few seconds whether or not to preserve her image in front of her blonde stranger. "No, I loved it," she answers finally, looking at the floor of the lift as she speaks.

"I understand. There's something about it. You liked it more than London?"

"No. It's like once you're a city girl, you're always a city girl, you know?"

"Denver is a city!" Brittany argues, pouting.

"I guess you're just a free spirit," Santana says, a hint of sarcasm creeping into her tone.

"You think you have me all figured out, don't you, Ms. Lopez?" Brittany puts on an Italian-American New York accent and Santana chuckles. "I assure you, I'm full of surprises."

Santana waggles her perfectly waxed eyebrows as her mood lifts and lifts and lifts. She doesn't feel so tired anymore, and she hopes she doesn't look it. "Next question, please,"

"Why do I have to be question master?"

"Because it was your dumb ass idea," Santana puts on her best 'don't mess with me' voice and face, and the shock on her face is clear when Brittany flips her two fingers and screws up her face in defiance. "Wow, feisty."

"You weren't expecting that!"

"Whatever," Santana rolls her eyes. "I wants my question!"

"I'll give you a question when you admit you like the game." _Do the Spanish accent again._ Santana inhales sharply, her mouth in a perfect o. "That's right. I went there!" Brittany snaps her fingers in a z formation, and Santana kisses her teeth.

"Are you a pre-teen girl?"

"You're avoiding the question!" Brittany exclaims, her light voice steadily rising. "You know what it is? You – like – the – game."

When Santana doesn't respond, instead looking pointedly at the lift doors and studying them intently, Brittany takes it as an excuse to continue. "What's that, Santana? You don't just _like _the game, you _love _it?"

Santana sticks out her bottom lip, and a very expensive red Chanel lipstick hits Brittany on the left shoulder in the next split second.

"Shut up!" she says after a few seconds of appreciating the sound of Brittany's giggling. _Seriously, what is this chick's deal? _She puffs out her chest, straightening up. _Please. You're Santana Lopez. Yes, blondes are your thing, but not ones who rib you and take the piss out of you. Pull yourself together. Cut her with your vicious, vicious words. _But Santana can't, or she doesn't want to insult the woman laughing at her sat opposite her. _How come? _"I have no strong feelings for or against the game."

"I'll take that, then," Brittany grins. "Okay, how old are you?"

"That's a crappy question." Santana retorts grumpily. "And will you throw my lipstick back?"

"Tough nuggets, answer it. And no, I think it rather likes it over here," she jokes, prodding the air in front of her.

Santana stares at her, bemused. "Britt, what are you doing…?"

"Figuratively poking you in the ribs. Anyway, answer the question!"

"Uh, didn't your mother ever teach you not to ask a lady her age?"

"Unless you want me to guess?"

"Guess if you want!" Santana rolls her eyes gently, sincerely doubting the blonde will have the balls to render an estimation as to her age.

She's almost immediately proved wrong. "25!"

_Ouch. _"I'm 22…" Santana replies flatly, wincing and grinding her teeth.

Brittany doesn't seem embarrassed at all, shrugging her shoulders. "You should go to bed earlier. I mean, you're beautiful, but you look super-tired." Frankness was never a weakness of Brittany's.

Santana coughs lightly to hide the awkwardness she feels at the slightly barbed compliment coming from her counterpart. "I guess you're… 21."

"I'm almost 22. But yeah, perfect!" Brittany claps her hands together, beaming. "See, you knew because I get at least 7 hours of sleep every night."

Santana screws up her face, trying to remember the last time she ever slept for that long.

Brittany continues to chat amicably. "So, does that mean we're in the same school year?"

"I guess it does. Next question,"

"Please. You can't rush the magic," Santana shakes her head, smiling, and Brittany clicks her tongue as she thinks. "I know! Oh, this is a good one…" She nods, clearly very pleased with herself.

"Put me out of my misery,"

"How was your high school experience, then?"

"That _is_ a good question. I'm afraid it doesn't quite negate your terrible one about age, though. How long have you got?"

_tbc._

__**So I just got back from New York where I saw plenty of Santana-types on the upper east-side. My mom affectionately refers to them as 'power Latinas', and I wish I was one. :(**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Can I guess?" Brittany winks. She's enjoying winding Santana up almost too much.

"No more guessing for you –"

"You were a cheerleader?" Brittany interrupts, cheekily, looking for a reaction from the woman opposite her.

"No, I wasn't, actually, not for a substantial amount of time anyway…" Santana pauses. "Quinn was, though. Head cheerleader for three years," her voice changes a little, and Brittany realises that it's pride. "And I was her best friend and , so suffice to say we ran that motherfucker." She stares at a spot in the corner of the lift, her face twitching into an inadvertent smile with memories.

Brittany scoffs, raising her left eyebrow so it forms a perfect arch. "Oh, really? How come you weren't a cheerleader with her?" she probes lightly, intrigued.

"Uh, I just didn't have time. I did a load of extra classes and performing arts bullshit, and I hated the uniform –"

"That's a lie," Brittany states simply, and Santana's mouth drops open.

"What?"

"You're biting your fingernails and you didn't make eye contact with me when you were talking." Brittany nods sincerely as a myriad of emotions cross Santana's face. "Plus, nobody hates the uniforms."

"_What?_"

"You know I'm right. I am the font of all knowledge. Please, San, tell me the real reason," she pleads, her voice whiny yet so goddamn cute at the same time. "There's nothing else to do!"

"Are you easily distracted?" Santana smirks and Brittany shushes her, flipping her hand. She chews her lip for a few seconds, just thinking. _What do you really have to lose? _She was like Brittany in the sense that frankness was never an issue for her, only she struggled with being completely honest and frank with herself. She makes her decision and Brittany stares at her, finding her chocolate eyes across the lift. "I've never said this out loud, um…" Brittany nods encouragingly, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a small smile. "Basically, I was a cheerleader until junior year and then I just thought, no. I can't be bothered with the sleeping around and the power games and people watching me and all the other bullshit, and besides, in Cow Town you couldn't imagine the scandal of a gay cheerleader and I wasn't about to spend my whole high school career being somebody I wasn't, so I was just the head bitch and nobody said anything…" She trails off, aware and embarrassed that she's rambling.

Brittany clears her throat. "Wow. That's pretty interesting, you know? You should write a book about it,"

Immediately, Santana's guard springs up and she feels a fist closing in her gut when she thinks the blonde is making fun of her. "What?" she snaps, her voice taking on a very different tone.

Brittany blinks reproachfully, picking up on the sudden change in atmosphere. "Wait, what?"

She stares back at Santana with complete sincerity, and the cogs start whirring in the Latina's mind. _Wait, she meant it? She's unlike anybody I've ever known. _"Sorry," she says after a few seconds of silence. "You're just unlike anyone I've ever known." _Why not? Just take the plunge. It's fine. You're hot._

The clouds clear from Brittany's face and she relaxes again, smiling widely. "In a good way?"

"Yeah, in a good way." _Is this flirting? Be careful. Gaydar has never been your strong point._

"Well, thanks. I meant what I said in the best of ways, too…"

_That _must _be flirting. Come on Santana! _"So, how was high school for you? You weren't a cheerleader, were you?" She poses the question quite delicately for someone as brusque as herself, and gives herself an imaginary pat on the back.

"I was, actually!" Brittany beams, Santana pursing her lips and nodding. She was full of surprises, Santana had to give it to her. "Head choreographer for the whole time, and head cheerleader senior year."

"Head choreographer?" Santana enquires, intrigued. "We never had one of them at my school. You must have been quite the prodigy. Have you got the moves then, Brittany?" she says, her voice flirty, winking suggestively. _Whoa. Slow down there._

Brittany looks down at her hands, blushing at the compliment. _Wow, my nails need filing. _The thought randomly crosses her mind, and so without a second one she pulls an improbably tiny nail file patterned with ducks from her purse and begins working on her left thumb.

_What the fuck? Is that a nervous tic? Was this your doing? Great, now she's scared of you because you hit on her and she is _not _interested. Good job. _Santana groans softly, and Brittany doesn't hear.

The notion of replying completely skips Brittany's mind. She was going to say something back, and she definitely intended to wink, that much was sure; it's just sometimes her mind explores forays and forgets others. She's focussing now, her tongue poking visibly against her cheek as she spins her middle finger around the rough material of her file. Santana feels like curling up into a ball and rolling away from Brittany, the lift, the office, New York, and preferably into the ocean to cool her burning cheeks.

It had happened to Santana twice before; a rejection. Once in high school, by a beautiful brunette cheerleader who was gay in Santana's bedroom but straight everywhere else, and made no secret of the fact when she asked her for a relationship; and once in London when she was abusing the legal age to drink and thought it would be a good idea to wander into the first bar she saw and hitting on the first woman she saw, who happened to be both in her mid-thirties and married. But, whatever. In both situations she had been able to run away, metaphorically and literally; by trying to pretend she wasn't in love with a girl who didn't care and escaping to a city where nobody knew her, and by throwing down her next few mojitos in embarrassment and practically sprinting to the other side of the bar. But that was only twice. And other than that, she was entirely ill-equipped to deal with rebuffing on any level because it just didn't happen to her.

And now there wasn't even a door. She was stuck in a lift. Stuck in a fucking lift. A box, a literal box. Curse_ the lifts! Curse all the lifts. This really isn't okay._

The next minute of silence is excruciating for Santana. She pulls out her phone and stares at it blankly, replying to a text from Kurt without even thinking, shuffling to the corner of the lift so she can wedge herself in, leaning her head against the metal panel below the buttons and closing her eyes. _Is this it? Is this going to be the whole of the remaining duration of your incarceration in this goddamn lift? Her avoiding you?_

"What's up?" Brittany blows the dust from her nails and looks up at Santana warmly, genuinely; causing the Latina to open one of her eyes in bewilderment and blink back at her. _Why is she all curled up? She's cute when she's all curled up._ "Are you okay?"

"Uh…" she mumbles, stretching out her legs. "Yeah! Are _you _okay?"

"I'm good. I'm totally sorry though," Brittany pouts and Santana opens her other eye, hopeful. "I forgot to ask another question! I just saw my nails and I thought no, they're much too long. They were so long I got distracted," she smiles apologetically, regarding Santana with concern as she double takes. "Are you sure you're okay? You look kind of squinky,"

"You really are easily distracted then," Santana states, sitting up and shaking her head. "And what's squinky?"

"Yeah, I think I am... What's wrong?"

"Doesn't matter, Brittany," she says lightly, trying to hide her deepening confusion. _What the fuck is going on? Pull yourself together. _"Can we carry on with the game?"

"Of course!" Brittany's worry fades and brightens immediately. "I told you you liked the game."

Santana playfully rolls her eyes, making a soft 'pah' noise on an exhale. It's funny, the relief coursing through her. She can feel it calming her heart and easing her mind, but she doesn't know why. _Pretty sure you need some sleep. You don't even _know _what you're thinking anymore. _

"If you were an ice cream, what ice cream would you be?"

_tbc._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Hmmm. What flavour would I be?"

"Are you asking me?"

"Yeah,"

"Caramel. Actually, maple syrup," Brittany licks her lips unknowingly, letting out a low whistle. "I'd love some maple syrup ice cream right now. When it's on offer we buy this Ben and Jerry's one, Yes, Pecan… And I don't usually like nuts, but they taste like little balls of toffee, not pecans…"

A smile slowly spreads over her face as she zones out, and she's vaguely aware of Santana's soft giggle before it abruptly stops.

"Why did you stop laughing?" Brittany asks sadly, frowning over at the Latina.

"Mouffull," Santana mumbles, swallowing hard. "I had a mouthful of ice cream. You're right, it's fucking delicious."

"Ice cream? Where did you get that from?" Brittany blinks rapidly, confusion infiltrating her features.

"I have my ways, Brittany Pierce," Santana replies, her voice low and laced with something Brittany couldn't quite work out, but liked. It was almost dangerous, like an apple injected with poison or a game of Russian Roulette. She places her hand on the floor in front of her with complete purpose, and Brittany's eyes widen when she realises the long tanned fingers are centimetres away from her bare leg. They look like she plays the piano. "Do you want some ice cream, Britt?" she continues, bringing the carton to linger in front of her chest from where it sat behind her. Brittany can hear her breathing, and she can feel goosebumps rising on her arms when she feels it against her cheek. Her heart beats even faster when an abstract thought crosses her mind; if Santana was to slip now, she would be draped over Brittany with her hair covering Brittany's patterned skirt and snaking around her upper thigh.

"But… We don't – there's no spoon…" the blonde stutters with every move Santana makes, pulling herself closer and closer.

Santana's face is inches away from Brittany's. Her dark, dark eyes search deep into Brittany's, and she feels her insides turn. It's like she can see into her soul. "You don't need a spoon. It's soft enough…" she whispers, her words cold on Brittany's ear.

"Soft enough –" Brittany repeats, bringing her hands up to Santana's body but letting them pause and float in the air, falling after a few moments. She doesn't know what to think.

"Don't talk." Brittany finds herself completely frozen, helpless as her head gently bumps against the lift wall as Santana slips her legs over Brittany's, straddling her. Holding a carton of Yes, Pecan in one hand and pressing on Brittany's lips with the other.

Brittany goes to say something, but she can't. "Shhh," the Latina breathes softly, bringing her finger away from Brittany's lips and caressing her jaw, lightly taking hold of it and opening her mouth. Brittany closes her eyes.

And when she opens them, it's because every single sense in her body needs to be at its height to even attempt to understand what's happening right here, right now. Santana's fingers tug at her bottom lip, and she can't help herself but to let out a deep, wanting sigh.

"Do you want some?" Santana murmurs again, running her hand down Brittany's shirt, fiddling with the buttons; she's making Brittany's heart flutter. Brittany silently nods, trying in vain to control herself; so Santana takes the ice cream with her fingers and the blonde gasps as she feels her heart beating in her lips while Santana pushes the cold, melted ice cream in to her open mouth. Brittany closes her eyes once more, clumsily taking Santana's waist in her hands and pulling her closer. She smells like oranges and cinnamon; her hair swings to the left when she kisses; and damn, is she a good kisser. Brittany's mind races as Santana's hair tickles her neck and her lips brush Brittany's own, and the pressure in her stomach erupts into a passion she's never felt before. She wants Santana's body to cover her own, to feel her lips against hers for as long as is humanly possible; she grabs greedily at Santana's blouse and wills her to press against her like she knows they both want…

Santana coughs loudly.

"Uh, Britt?"

_Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. _"What? Hey? What's up?" Brittany panics, tapping her foot nervously against the floor. _Oh my god. Oh my god._

"You got distracted again," Santana laughs, and Brittany forces a giggle out too. "Were you having a vision? Your eyes were all glazed; it was like some next JD shit was going on!"

"JD?" _Oh my god._

"Off Scrubs. You know, when he has his fantasies?" Santana remains both painfully and blissfully unaware of the waterfall of thoughts in Brittany's head.

_Oh my god. Oh my god. _"I was just thinking about ice cream." Kind of true. "One second, I need to text Sam… My roommate..." Kind of true as well; but really she needed time to think. _Oh my god, so what does _that _mean? Okay, so I'm sexually frustrated. I knew that anyway. I don't need a little vision to remind me I haven't had sex in three months and I need to as soon as possible before I die. So how did that happen, anyway? Ice cream, right. Okay, so I love ice cream. And I love women. And together? Perfect. But Santana? Where does she fit in? I've only known her for like, an hour. Sure, she's hot, but what kind of pervert imagines a girl on top of them in a lift having been with her for less than a day? Bad, bad Brittany. Acting like a man. I blame Sam for your downfall, it's alright. Okay, so I should stop thinking now. And start moving my thumbs, because Santana's been looking at me staring down at my phone for at least two minutes. I wonder how long I was drifting for? I hope it wasn't too long. Help._

She settles eventually on a short but clear message to her best friend.

**Help me. Trapped in a lift with Jill Goodacre. And I just floated off and imagined her feeding me ice cream. Please call.**

She presses send, satisfied. Sam will get it. When she looks up, Santana is typing a message on her own phone, biting her nail. It's to Kurt.

**I don't care; I'm never calling you the Gay Oracle. Your advice isn't even good. Getting her drunk is a fucking stupid idea. What if she vomits? Then what do I do? You're so shit. You have the common sense of a peanut. Hope you're having a terrible night without me.**

It's perfectly brusque and unsubtle, and when she taps send she too leans back, satisfied.

Brittany looks up and their eyes meet for a second, until the blonde pales and hastily snaps her gaze away.

Santana coughs again, smiling warmly at a pale Brittany. "I think you'd be like a marshmallow flavoured ice cream."

"How come?" Brittany feels a wave of normality wash over her, and she reminds herself that Santana has no idea what just happened in her mind.

Santana shrugs. "You're kind of fluffy… And sweet. And I really, really like marshmallows…" She's flirting unashamedly now, becoming cornier and cornier. Perhaps Brittany likes it to be spelled out in front of her, or emblazoned in flashing lights, or exclaimed in sky-writing.

"I thought you didn't have a favourite food!"

"They don't qualify as a favourite. I have them once a year, tops, at Christmas." When Brittany shakes her head with disapproval, she throws her arms out in a milder form of her usual exasperation. "Calories! Please, Brittany. You get to move all day, every day. There's only so much butt-exercises can do for a girl who spends half her fucking life stuck in an office."

"I like marshmallows too. Once, I fit –"

Brittany's phone rings out twice before she answers it with a garbled 'excuse me' to Santana, who waves her hand in acknowledgement and begins furtively typing out a message on her own phone.

_ tbc._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Sam cuts to the chase as he snuggles with his girlfriend on their sofa, eating pizza and drinking a beer. "What flavour was the ice cream?"

Thankfully, it's nowhere near as loud as Santana's phonecall to Quinn was. Santana can still hear it though, but whether or not she's actually striving to is something she won't think too deeply about. "Yes, Pecan." Brittany answers almost immediately, and listens to Sam's following groan.

"Shit, Brittany. This is bad," Sam smacks his lips as Brittany nods emphatically and Santana raises an eyebrow in question.

"I know. What do I do?"

Brittany can hear Sam rolling over, yawning.

"Sam! This is an emergency!"

"Sorry, sorry. That's your favourite, right?" Brittany murmurs a yes while discreetly turning down the volume of her call. Santana blinks reproachfully and returns to her own device. "Okay. So what does that mean?"

"Mmmknow."

"Gotcha. You can't say anything to give the game away?"

"Yeah."

"So why did you ask me to call?" Sam stifles another yawn and swats his girlfriend's hand away from the remote. "Abbie, no. We can go to bed when Downton is finished. I'm hardly asking much –"

"Sam!"

"Sorry, sorry. You wanted my advice, right. Well, are you getting the signals?"

Brittany can almost picture Sam making his eyebrows travel in a wave across his face. "I don't know… I don't think so."

"Is she kind of scary hot? Like a Scotch Bonnet?" he pauses, musing. "Because I know you love chilli but if it's too hot, you won't even try it. I'm still saying you should. Abbie bought these really nice ones home from the Chelsea Market."

"Exactly!" Brittany shouts, a little too loudly. Santana sharply looks up at the noise, and stares at Brittany quizzically. "If she doesn't start chipping in for groceries, I'm going to pull her hair!" she rushes out, hoping her illusion of roommate troubles proves enough for Santana.

"But she wasn't too hot in your head. Hmmm," the cogs turn in his blonde head and Brittany can hear him scratch his ear.

"Don't scratch your ear, it's gross."

"I think you should just see how it goes, you know. It's not like you really _need _to push things, you could have unlimited time…"

Brittany shudders. "Don't say that. You know how I get with these small spaces."

"Just try not to think too much –"

"Like that was ever going to be a problem," Brittany giggles but doesn't catch Santana's little smile at the sound.

"About having sex with her, I mean. You have to actually reach that point for you to be able to do that, you know?" Sam tuts, chuckling. "Or not. Damn, Britt. You've come on!"

"It's all your fault," Brittany grumbles, increasingly aware of how bizarre her responses must be sounding to the woman opposite her. But it was true; there were only so many lewd stories of one night stands Brittany could deal with without the concepts and ideas worming their way into her mind.

"Yeah, I know." Sam agrees, pursing his lips. His girlfriend peers up from her position laid on his chest with petulance, and he ruffles her fringe before continuing. "Anyway, Britt…"

"You haven't… anything!"

"Did you just miss out a word?"

"Yes."

"So she won't know what you're talking about?"

"Yes."

"Grow a pair." Sam smiles widely, and hangs up, leaving Brittany opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish. The dial tone sounds out and another bright red lipstick hits Brittany on the shoulder, spurring her out of her trance.

"Hey, blondie," Brittany smiles at the nickname and throws the lipstick straight back at Santana, hitting her right in the forehead, triggering the most brazenly sexual fake gasp of pain Brittany had ever heard. Her heart leaps. "So, what's the story?"

"What?" Brittany comes back down the earth with a bump. _I can work with this! I can grow a pair!_

"What's the story?" Santana asks again. "It sounded like a pretty intense conversation you were having there," she says, smiling indulgently.

"Is that sarcasm?" When Santana simply quirks an eyebrow, Brittany presses on. "Um, it was just my roommate, Sam…"

"He sounds a lot nicer than Quinn," Santana replies, her voice light. _Fucking yes. Not boyfriend. Sure, you're not after a girlfriend, or anything. But girls without boyfriends tend to be a lot easier to convince. Hoodwink. Persuade._

Brittany giggles, and Santana wishes she had an infinite number of little quips to elicit the lovely sound. "No, she sounds nice…" she coughs, and Santana kisses her teeth.

"You're lying!" she chides jokingly, and Brittany looks down in shame. "It's okay. Neither of us are particularly nice, so it works."

"I think you're nice," Brittany admits almost shyly, looking up at the brunette.

Santana tugs a hand through her hair and sighs. "I think you're the only person in the world who thinks that, Britt." Shushing the blonde, she continues. "And nice is much too lame a word for you, you're like… shiny. Sunny, even." _How cute? You're really pulling out all of the stops here. _Santana congratulates herself.

"No, you are nice. And you and Quinn are funny, even if you're not nice." Brittany nods firmly. "And thanks… That's so… nice?" _You know when you say a word so many times it doesn't even sound like a word anymore? Nice. Nice. Nice. Nice._

"Britt, please. So, what's the story?"

"Oh, yeah. Um, he keeps bringing his girlfriend over and she practically lives with us now and she always eats the last of the Yes, Pecan, and it's not always on offer, so I'm a little bit annoyed." Brittany surprises herself with the ease and speed at which her lie spills out, and puts on her best disgruntled face so Santana knows she's serious.

"Oh, that sucks. You can't just go pulling people's hair though," Santana's face has settled into one of listening and intent, and Brittany wants to kiss her so badly she thinks she might explode.

"I know that! I can't do it anyway because Sam will probably think I'm trying to be kinky with his girlfriend again." It slips out before she can stop it, and she winces with sheer embarrassment at the loud laugh from Santana at her words.

"Explain!"

"Not like that! Basically, she hit on me first. And then we pretended we were twins… It's a long story." Brittany's cheeks fade from their flushed red as Santana laughs, the sound instantly putting her at ease.

"I think I underestimated you, Brittany Pierce." Santana winks exaggeratedly and Brittany blushes again, biting her lip. _Is she just another sexually fluid twenty first century hippie? Don't read too far into this. Come on, Lopez. Put on your game face._

"Well, I can only assume nothing would surprise you… Lothario, anyone?" the blonde replies suddenly and cheekily, wiping the smug smile from Santana's face and watching it being replaced with an impressed smirk.

"I literally cannot articulate my hatred for that blonde bitch. Quinn," she confirms as a look of worry flashes in Brittany's eyes.

"What's your story then?"

"You what?"

"You and Quinn. How you ended up here, roommates…"

"Why are you interested?"

"I like knowing things," Brittany shrugs, and Santana pushes out her bottom lip and nods.

"Um. We've been friends since we were like, five. I guess there's no shaking someone you've known for over 15 years, especially if you happen to be graduating to the same city. She goes to Columbia. Um, what else? I just don't really get our relationship, like the way we are with each other, but I couldn't imagine being without her for longer than a week…"

Brittany senses Santana's finished and so the question she's been waiting to ask threatening to bubble over. "So you're just best friends?"

"Don't tell her," the brunette deadpans, adding a nod as not to confuse Brittany.

"Have you never been with her?"

Santana is thrown by the inquiry, physically leaning back a little and blinking. "Um, no. I mean she's hot, but it'd be like banging your sister… Ew."

Brittany feels a little something in her chest relax. She doesn't know what it is, but it's good. "Sorry, by the way – for prying, I mean… It's just you sounded like you talk about things I'd be mortified to discuss with –"

Santana interrupts, slightly shocked at how astute the blonde's statement is. "No, I understand. It's just that there aren't really any lines between us… Like everything we've been through, we've pretty much been through together…" she trails off, and Brittany wonders if it's deliberate.

_Ten dollars says they've slept together. _"I get you. There kind of are some boundaries between me and Sam, like he still gets scared of tampons and I still want to vomit when he's finished having a bath. Is it weird to cut your nails in the actual tub? I keep telling him it is."

Santana smiles. "So, question master, can I ask you something?"

Brittany bounces up and down a little where she sits. "Of course!"

"What's your story? Like, full stop. Tell me about yourself. All I know so far is that you're from Denver, you dance, you were a cheerleader and your roommate's called Sam, and you've been on a cop-out soul-searching holiday. How did you end up here?"

"Wow –"

"I know - why didn't I just ask all the questions? No, Britt, I'm only joking. No, don't look at me like that!"

"Okay, well…"

Santana's phone lights up with a message from Kurt, but she ignores it. No, this is far more interesting.

_tbc._

__**And it does get far more interesting. Tell me any ideas you have for them in a review! It's a weird social situation, and I reckon pretty much anything could happen. OOh.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Wow. Um, I lived in Australia until I was four, so I don't really remember it but I think I'm pretty much tanned permanently because of it? Well, that's my theory anyway. My big sister has the funniest accent ever; it's like Heath Ledger out of Ten Things I Hate About You. I love that film." She sighs. "Then we came over here because Denver is totally the place to be if you want to start up an organic jewellery store like my mom did, and also because she kind of missed America. My dad wasn't really that bothered by it all, we just go and see my grandma in Melbourne every second year and I have to wear factor 100 suncream, which is super embarrassing. My little sister's all pale, so she burns no matter what. She never lived over there, only here. I guess Denver _is _really cold though, especially in winter…"

"Most places are?" Santana chipped in with a smile, and Brittany shushes her before continuing.

"Mmm. I suppose that's true. But yeah, anyway. I went to like an ordinary elementary school and an ordinary middle school but _then _I auditioned for a different school and it was like a unicorn school. That's why we had a choreographer on the cheerleading team. Everyone was on scholarships, or something like that, so we were just totally the best at everything. The only thing we never won was Nationals, for cheerleading; and I for one am adamant there was some foul play involved because there's no way five of the same team can get the same debilitating virus just in time for the finals. Like, I don't know if you ever saw it, but we were probably better than that Ohio squad with that head blonde bitch, I mean –"

Santana had been holding in her laughter ever since Brittany had mentioned foul play. "Britt, stop a second. The Cheerios?"

Brittany's eyes widen in recognition. "_That_ was Quinn?"

"The very same. She's kind of nicer now, though, I guess. And it was laxatives, I think. Coach Sue probably employed some failing actors to play doctors to tell your teammates it was really dangerous for them to perform…"

"She sounds crazy. No wonder you left," Brittany sniffed, suddenly a little bitter from the three losses in a row to the Cheerios at Nationals.

Santana laughed. "Sorry, Britt. Don't pout like that! That's really strange, though. I went to every single championship, how come I never saw you?"

"We never performed! We would get there, and suddenly several members of the team would get ill!" Brittany feels the tip of her nose getting a little hot, and reminds herself to calm down. _It was a long time ago! Get a grip!_

Santana brushes her leg with her right hand, and looks Brittany straight in the eyes. "Listen. That was because your team were better than ours. I know Sue Sylvester, and there's no way she'd stop you from performing at all if she thought there was any chance of the Cheerios winning. Okay? So you might not have a trophy, but you should be safe in that knowledge."

Brittany bites her lip and feels a heat rushing to her cheeks. She coughs, ever so lightly, and smiles widely at the sincere face of the woman opposite her, searching her dark eyes. _Go on. Kiss her!_ But Santana looks away the second the thought crosses Brittany's mind, and she can only mumble a 'thank you', before clearing her throat and restarting her story.

"Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, school. So school was pretty good, I enjoyed all of it apart from the actual learning business." She smiles, kind of shyly. "I basically never saw the light of day in senior year because I was working so hard with so many tutors to actually graduate."

Santana tries unsuccessfully to hide her surprise.

"I know, right? I'm not that dumb. I just don't like ordinary stuff, especially chemistry and things like that. I actually failed chemistry, but that cannot be discussed outside of these three walls. Four, even."

"Math too, huh?"

"Shut up! But yeah, that was never what I wanted to do. So I got a full sort of ride, to Julliard, and I've been here ever since. I was the only one from my school in the end, which was kind of sad. My girlfriend ended up going to the Royal College of Ballet in England, so that was really kind of sad, because I haven't seen her in ages. Sam was my best friend in our first year of college so we moved in together, but then he left because he shattered his ankle and now he's a singer in all the best folk and country joints around town. It's pretty cool. We used to live with this crazy girl called Rachel Berry who was on a theatrical scholarship back in Denver, but she went to Broadway and either had a big break or a psychotic one, because she moved all her stuff out and we haven't seen her in forever. I still sort of want to know if her ship sailed off into the sunset or got lost in the Bermuda Triangle."

The name sounded familiar to Santana, but she brushed it off. _And girlfriend. Fucking get in!_ She feels like doing a little celebratory dance. "And you're a teacher now?"

"Yeah. I have to get by in between auditions… My next one is for Chicago. I'd be playing the Hungarian girl, the axe murderer one; but the whole set up is super cool because all the chorus dancers are basically in everything. It's like, the coolest show ever. Have you seen it?"

"Mmm. Quinn is determined we become more culturally adept. She wants to be a journalist when she _really_ grows up, so she wants to experience as many things as possible. I think it's bullshit –"

"And I think you're lying, again!" Brittany tuts, and folds her arms. "I can tell! You like musicals."

"I never said I didn't like musicals! I was in several school musicals, actually." Santana tuts back, louder, and Brittany giggles. "I just don't buy all this cultural enrichment stuff. Like I lived in London, and all I really learnt was that British people don't say what they're really thinking and _are _willing to bodily shove you out of a subway carriage during rush hour. Quinn thinks that was an accident, but I firmly believe he just wanted the last spot before the doors shut."

"I don't buy the fact you don't buy it."

"That's silly."

Brittany mimics the Latina and is hit _right _on the boob with a tube of mascara.

"What are you, eight?" Santana grins and flips two fingers up at the blonde opposite her.

Brittany blows a raspberry before scrabbling in her own purse for a missile. When she retrieves an old packet of mints, she does her very best to aim her throw right down Santana's cleavage.

Her hand eye co-ordination always good. The Latina screams and stands up as quickly as she can, mints bouncing from her blouse to the floor of the lift, scattering everywhere, hitting Brittany, and Santana's shoes, and the displaced vent cover, and the doors, which remained completely and utterly shut.

"Britt-any!" Santana shouts, hopping around as the mints complete their journey southward down her top. "They're so cold! This isn't funny!"

_Man, I wouldn't mind being those mints right now. _Brittany can only shake her head in disagreement and laugh and laugh and laugh. "You look ridiculous," she manages between giggles, and Santana shoots her a filthy look before diving to her own purse and pulling out a packet of those little Wonka sweets; the tiny ones that get everywhere, and dumping them unceremoniously over Brittany's head.

Suddenly, the two of them – grown woman, not even drunk – are standing up and scrabbing around for things to throw at one another, giggling and panting and lobbing everything they can lay their hands on. It's really, really fucking weird, but it's so fun that it's almost like they both forget who they are and where they are.

"Bring it, bitch!" Brittany yells in response to a tirade of Spanish and a hurled handful of mints, bending down and gathering all the mints and sweets she can in her arms; throwing them one by one at a steadily retreating Santana, until the Latina collapses with laughter and from the seemingly never-ending missiles hitting her body in the corner of the lift nearest the button panels.

_It's the only thing that feels natural_, Brittany reasons, as she flops next to Santana, their limbs entangled. She can feel every heavy exhale of the brunette, every rise and fall of her chest, as her arm dangles over Santana's torso. Santana looks straight at her for a little too long, right into her huge blue eyes; and Brittany can tell she's holding her breath because she's figured out the rhythm.

_Kiss her, then. You pussy._

_Can't I just kiss her now?_

_tbc._

__**So ****_this _****is actually Chapter 8. Minor discrepancy, I guess I kind of suck at maths too. Review and I'll send you good thoughts.**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Santana breaks their eye contact first, dropping her gaze down to her lap; her eyes covered by thick, black lashes and blinking over and over again. Her whole head droops forward, her hair swinging over to almost cover her face. She can feel Brittany's warmth against her, and she can feel the burn of her stare through the dark curtain of tresses; and they're not feelings she wants to go away any time soon. It's just confusing. She feels bad.

Brittany's confused too. Even more than usual. "What's the matter?" she whispers, taking Santana's cheek in her own hand and gently tipping her face up so that once more, it's directly in front of Brittany's own.

_What _is _the matter? What _are _you doing? _"You're too nice!" she blurts, unable to look Brittany quite in the eye. "You're too nice to be kissing me! This is too weird!" Her eyes desperately roam the lift for something not quite tangible, as her mind works itself up into a full speed torrent of thoughts.

She knows why she hasn't kissed Brittany, and it comes in the simple form of a closed door. The very idea of not being able to escape. And it's not like she'd sleep with Brittany, right here, right now, but because it's _Brittany, _she almost sees it as the same sort of thing. They'd kiss, and then what? Sex? And if they weren't trapped in a fucking lift, Santana would leave afterward without even her number; only a full name and an abridged life history. That was what was wrong, that was the matter; it just didn't feel right.

Brittany isn't helping anything, looking so perplexed and beautiful with a grin spreading over her face. "Wait, what?" She even giggles.

"Uh, I just can't!"

"But I want to." Brittany sticks out her bottom lip and Santana's cheeks redden. She's making a fool out of herself.

"Because, you're too nice." She can't move her hand to bite at her nails, but she fiddles all the same. "You _heard _my roommate… Like, I'd love to tell you it's not true but that's a lie so I'm taking the decision for the both of us to do the sensible thing…"

But still, neither of them are moving. Brittany can still feel Santana's heartbeat, quickening when she speaks; and she can practically feel the brunette struggling in this extremely bizarre situation. _I'll help her out, _she decides, smiling and taking Santana's hand.

"Why not? If you can give me five reasons, then we can get out of this lift and we can be simple accessories to one another's amusing little lift-related anecdote. But if you can't, I get to kiss you. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough…" Santana murmurs, wincing.

"Go on then," Brittany coaxes, playing with Santana's fingers. "I'm waiting."

"We work in the same building. Hypothetically speaking, it could be awkward if we go on a single failed date and hypothetically speaking, I find out you're a Mormon or a member of the KKK."

"I work at a school on 73rd, try again!" Brittany squeezes Santana's hand, giggling gently.

"There might be cameras in here…"

Brittany gasps exaggeratedly. "What on earth do you take me for? I'm not suggesting we don't keep it PG. Or at least 12A. Next one?"

Santana swallows, hard. "I'm kind of shit, Britt." _Fuck. Why are you rhyming? _"I really am. And you're probably the nicest girl I've ever met, and I don't want you to get screwed over."

"I don't want me to get screwed over either. It's no fun, I know that. But, sadly, you have a moo point; because I'm the one who wants to kiss you so it's not for you to be worried about."

"I want to kiss you too, it's just –" Santana cringes again, feeling incredibly grateful for her complexion not rendering her a tomato-coloured mess.

"Next reason!"

"Uh. There was garlic in my chicken salad at lunch."

Brittany pauses. "Santana, my nose is like three inches away from your mouth. I would have smelt it, and I can totally tell when you're lying, too."

Unable to stop the grin creeping across her mouth, Santana shakes her head. "When did you get so smart?" _And cute._

And now it's Brittany's turn to blush, biting her lip and leaning her face away from Santana's. She clears her throat. "You have one more chance…"

"What if… we were getting our mack on, all heavy; all panting and touching and sighing and grabbing… and the doors opened and –"

"Then that would be super hot." Brittany cuts her off, firmly nodding her head; tugging at Santana's hand to try and make the object of her affections look up at her. "That's it. You didn't have _any _reasons…" and she licks her lips – subtly, not in a disgusting way, just because her mouth has gone dry all of a sudden – and tips Santana's chin up, closing her eyes, and relaxing her neck and body in to the other woman, just waiting for the second their lips touch…

"Wait," Santana says simply, three fingers pressing on to Brittany's mouth. The blonde's eyes shoot open and stare over at her grumpily, but she persists. "If we kiss, you have to grant me one thing…"

"Mmph?" Brittany mumbles, her breath hot against Santana's hand.

"You have to come on a date with me." _What the fuck are you doing? This wasn't part of the plan! You don't _date. _Date?_

"Of course…" Brittany breathes, all but attacking the Latina's now unobstructed lips.

It's a million times better than Brittany had imagined with the ice cream, and it's a million times better than Santana had briefly imagined the two of them on her couch. It's a strange kiss; almost nervous in the way the two of them press against one another, definitely nervous in the hesitation Santana has before allowing Brittany's tongue into her mouth; definitely nervous in the clumsiness Brittany encounters while resting her hand on Santana's waist, turning her body gently so they're facing one another completely.

Another thing that's strange is that both women are slowly becoming acutely aware to the fact this is the best kiss they've ever had the good fortune to share with another human being.

_Fucking _hell, _Britt. You are one damn good fucking kisser._

_Maybe this is what people mean when they say about fireworks happening when you kiss somebody. Because there's fireworks in my head, on my lips, and in my chest._

Santana lets out a little moan, running her hands up Brittany's back to entangle them in her long blonde hair and force her warm, beating body closer; almost like she's craving her.

They break away with a muffled word in Spanish from Santana and an exhaled 'wow' from Brittany. They're both leaning with one shoulder against the side of the lift, legs twisted together; one of Brittany's hands lazing on Santana's waist, the other just above her breast; one of Santana's hand tangled in Brittany's hair and the other lingering on her thigh, subconsciously rubbing up and down.

"That was…" Brittany starts with the kind of breathlessness that doesn't stem from exertion, but passion.

"Yeah." Whatever it is, Santana agrees.

A sharp crackle from the intercom breaks them both out of their meandering reveries, popping the perfect little bubble around the two of them.

"Hello?" a stressed out southern accent sounds through the lift. "Anybody there?"

Everything in Santana says 'do I have to, really?', but she sluggishly reaches up to the intercom button nevertheless. "Yeah," she responds, a little pissed off at the poor timing of absolutely-goddamn-everything. "Two of us."

"Hey!" Brittany contributes, waving. Santana giggles like some lovestruck teenager.

"Right," the operator says, pressing some buttons and clicking some clickers. "The mechanics are working it all out as we speak… Sorry, ladies. It'll be any second now –"

"How long?"

"The second they get it fixed. Everything been okay for you? I sure wouldn't want to be stuck in one of those lifts, sweet lord. Don't you feel like you've been buried alive?"

Santana bursts out laughing, and Brittany answers instead. "No, no. It's been fine." She giggles and releases the button.

Their foreheads rest together, and their kiss resumes. Emphatically so.

"Britt –" Santana's breath hitches as Brittany slides her hand up her leg, her fingers blazing a trail up toward her core. The heat is almost unbearable. "We don't – we can't –"

"Any time is enough time," the blonde whispers, licking at the sensitive point between Santana's neck and ear. "Let me show you –"

"I believe you, God, I believe you –" Santana all but moans, pushing against Brittany despite herself. "But we can't… We haven't been on a date, yet…"

"Fine…" Brittany whines, jutting her bottom lip out as Santana nibbles it; all the while taking Brittany's hand from under her skirt. "Tease."

"You love it."

Brittany did love it. And Santana loved being called a tease, because she never had been before. She let Brittany know about it.

They kissed until the lift opened.

_tbc?_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"You look kind of ridiculous." Quinn flops back over the sofa, eating salted peanuts. Santana twitches with every crunch, waiting for the text from the cab company to let her know they're outside.

"Shut up, Q."

"You're nervous!" Quinn nonchalantly whips a salted peanut at the Santana's pacing form, snorting derisively and flicking through the pages of a magazine with her foot. "I'm just revelling in it while it lasts."

Santana spins on her heel and points a finger at Quinn, who smiles blithely. "Mmm, revel all you want. You, sat in your sweats, chowing on those little lumps of salty goodness while you watch Balls of Steel all night. Do it Quinn, do it."

Quinn throws another peanut at Santana in response, snorting. "Fuck you. It's not Balls of Steel, it's Sex in the City. Speaking of which –"

"No, no, no." Santana pouts into the nearest mirror, pressing her lips into a big red kiss.

"How come? Where's the sudden chivalry come from?" Quinn spits a peanut into the air and catches it in her mouth.

"Q, what is your problem? I don't have a clue what I'm doing, you know that. Why are you trying to make me feel worse? It's all I can fucking _think _about!" Santana runs her hands through her hair, suddenly serious. Her palms are damp. She's so nervous, it's stupid.

"I'm just confused. All it took was a kook in a lift and now you're reformed! You can appreciate my concern, you know? Don't put all your eggs in one basket, Ana. It's been okay since we got here, right?" Quinn mutes the TV and looks at her best friend attentively, putting down her bowl of peanuts and speaking calmly.

"I don't want…" Santana trails off as she fiddles with her makeup in the mirror by the doorway, glancing at her phone every few seconds.

"You look hot. She sounds pretty hot. She obviously likes you. It'll be fine." Quinn blows Santana a kiss, and the Latina pretends to catch it before taking a deep breath and slamming the door to their apartment as she leaves. Quinn turns Carrie Bradshaw back up and rolls over on to her front, staring unblinkingly at the flickering screen.

* * *

"It's not the end of the world, you know…" Brittany stands in front of her bathroom mirror, curling her hair. "She was kind of a bitch, Sam."

"I know, I know. It's just nice to have somebody." Sam is sprawled over his own sofa, his generous lips parted in a sad frown. He's upset, and it makes Brittany upset too; especially since she's going on an actual date with an actual girl that very night.

"Sammy, don't be a sad panda. You're like, the best surf dude this side of Manhattan, and if you can't find somebody, nobody can."

"Maybe it's not about finding somebody; maybe it's just about having somebody. At our age, anyway." Sam sighs hugely and throws his arms above his head, letting them dangle from the end of the sofa. Brittany hums in agreement from the bathroom, teasing the curls into loose waves. "Oh, it's your date tonight, isn't it?" he continues, with a small smile.

"Yeah,"

"Lift chick?"

"Yeah." Now Brittany smiles as she brushes her teeth and checks for any stray seeds.

Sam can hear it in her voice, and he coos at her from his position on the sofa. "Has somebody got a little crush then, ay, Britt?"

"Aye," she affirms in a poor attempt at a Scottish accent. "She makes my heart all flutter like, I hardly even know her but I kind of think I love her."

Sam chuckles as Brittany hops back through into their lounge, pulling on her purple heels. "Don't go all head over heels, Britt. You know what that means."

"Yeah, you fall over. That won't happen," she nods firmly and picks up her purse from the table Sam's feet lie on, straightening her dress one last time. "And can you not? With the feet? Thanks. Like, I eat off that…"

"Break an ankle, Britt! She'll love you!" Sam calls as she leaves, grinning. "And just so you know, Blaine's coming over for a bit later. He might be crashed on the couch when you're back."

He takes a beer from the fridge and positions himself carefully in front of the TV, his personal pride and joy. There's a Balls of Steel marathon on; the sun goes down through the sheets Brittany uses as blinds in their kitchen; his beer is cold and the tortilla chips he's grabbed are nice too. Single life isn't half bad.

* * *

"Are you bored?" The two women sit in a small restaurant in Greenwich, both of them playing with their food and the napkins and in Brittany case, her hair; and Santana's, her thumbnail. Brittany nurses a glass of white wine and Santana is looking desperately from left to right in search of a waiter to bring her her third glass of red, her mind racing.

Brittany giggles. "Of course not, San."

And she wasn't bored, not at all. She was just watching Santana. They met outside the restaurant and she was pretty much speechless from then on in; who told Santana it was okay to wear a dress that short with _those _legs? _I might be easily distracted, but damn. Those legs _were the main two words running round in Brittany's head, and they had been for the past hour. They had hugged, and it was nice; and Santana had kissed her very lightly on the cheek as they entered the restaurant. Her hand had wavered by her side a little too long, and Brittany wondered whether or not to take hold of it as they were shown to their table. She didn't, so she's had to settle for running her foot up and down Santana's toned calf. It'll do.

"So, I was thinking," Santana swallows, biting her lip before she continues. "We never finished your completely genius game, you know, in the lift."

"Twenty questions?" Brittany smiles fondly, her hands settling on the table in front of her. "You're right, we never did."

"And you asked me where my favourite place in the whole world was and I said something about London, right?"

"Yeah," Brittany responds, still smiling. _But surely it's too early for a trip away together? Maybe she's just into confined spaces, or something. Like, the mile high club._

Santana shifts in her seat, reaching for her purse from under her chair. "Yeah. It's kind of boring in here, right? And I actually have a load of favourite places here, too." Perhaps she's a little drunk. It's funny how her inner monologue is silenced so quickly by wine.

"So?"

"So I'm saying we should ditch this place, take our main courses and I can show you my absolute favourite place. All you have to do is ask me the question."

"That's kind of like, not normal. At least it's not what happens in films, or on the TV," Brittany mulls the idea over out loud, having already made her mind up.

"Is it ever going to be conventional with us? Please, Britt." Santana almost whispers, her voice so low and flirty and her eyes so dark and wide Brittany feels like the room just got ten times warmer. "It'll be good, promise."

"Of course… So, Santana, show me your favourite place." Brittany winks, and Santana plants a fleeting kiss on her lips across the table before pushing her chair over in her haste to pay the bill and leave the restaurant. _She's so... Wow._

A relatively short cab ride later, and Brittany's eyes are squeezed shut as Santana holds both of her hands in her own and leads her up a set of stairs, stopping to hold a hushed conversation with a stranger as they walk. In her personal darkness, Brittany hears Santana laugh and the sound relaxes her to the point she sighs inadvertently, causing Santana to laugh again and the whole cycle to repeat.

"You alright there, Britt?" she asks through giggles, and Brittany nods emphatically because yes, everything is totally alright. More than alright. She's barely even wondering where she is when Santana clasps her hands to a barrier, placing her own tanned fingers atop.

"You can open your eyes," Santana says, and it sounds kind of shy and definitely nervous.

Brittany opens her eyes, blinking to remove the sudden fuzziness and the blurring lights in front of her. "The highline," she breathes, beaming her trademark Pierce beam. "But it's like nine," she continues, raising an eyebrow to Santana who stands to her left. The lights of the city shine in her dark brown eyes, the streets and the buildings mirrored in her intent gaze over the pulsating beauty of Manhattan.

She just chuckles knowingly in response. "I may or may not have gone to college with one of the guards on the entrance. Now, come on." She grabs Brittany's hand and pulls her over to one of the crossover areas, kicking off her shoes and taking them in her hands. "I know it looks kind of weird, but it's fine. Just trust me," and with that, she lets go of Brittany's hand and jumps easily over the railing, leaving the blonde blinking and confused at her disappearance. Slowly, it registers. She just threw herself off the highline.

"Santana!" she shouts, her shrill voice piercing the night and rising all the while. "What are you –"

"Relax, Britt! I told you to trust me, right?"

"Where are you talking from?" Brittany spins wildly on her heel, looking round and round for her illusive date. Like she's somehow teleported to stand right behind her, and then she can grab her waist and they can kiss -

"Come over to the barrier," Santana yells, carefully keeping her voice light. "And look down."

Santana stands on an old freight platform, staring up at a wide eyed and disbelieving Brittany, who breathes an 'oh'.

"See! It's fine. You're a dancer, right?" Seeing Brittany nod, Santana smiles and continues. "Right, so you can pass your shoes down to me." Brittany does, and when she dangles her arm as far as it can go and sees it's only about another metre's drop to a wide-ish platform, she sighs in relief. "And then –"

Brittany jumps the barrier effortlessly, landing next to Santana like a cat. "Whoa."

The blonde grins and dusts off her hands. "What _is _this?"

Santana just shakes her head and motions for Brittany to follow her. "Come on, Britt."

They duck and weave through various metal bars and rusty bolts as the two of them continue their little traverse underneath the highline itself, down a little rat race where Brittany feels like a protagonist in a silent film. It's strange and perfect, and it gets even stranger and more perfect when Santana tugs Brittany down a few steps to a little dais which faces in the direction of 10th Avenue. There's just enough room for two people, and Brittany feels a little pang of jealousy when she sees blankets and a bottle of whiskey already in place. Her face falls in the darkness.

Santana continues unawares. "Here it is," she says, pulling Brittany down to sit next to her and a blanket over the two of them. It's really quite small, and their bodies are pushed together simply for a lack of room. With some difficultly, Santana takes her phone from her purse and presses play on her current favourite album, James Blake. Measurements resonates around their little booth-like position, and it's beautifully timed; for once.

"It's lovely…" Brittany exhales, still quite unable to process exactly where she is, what she's doing and who she's with. "Looks like you come here often." She can't quite stop herself.

Santana just giggles, lightly slapping Brittany's arm. "Cheeky. No, I haven't actually been up here in a long time. Quinn and I used to just sit on our little podium all the time when we first got here, like we were trying to get over the fact we were actually here. We'd literally just sit getting drunk or high or whatever the fuck else, and we'd talk about life, shit like that…"

"I swear I didn't even think it was possible to like you more than I do," Brittany places a hand on Santana's cheek and turns it to her own, staring deep into her eyes. "But, it is. So now I guess I have to eat my hat."

This kiss is even better than the one in the lift. Surrounded sounds and smells of their city, they move in to one another as far as the confined space will let them and every touch is like a foray into new unknown lands. It's like a routine they've practised; just the way their bodies are so in tune, the way Santana knows exactly how far to lean in and Brittany knows exactly how far she needs to pull her closer.

Santana trails kisses down her neck, and Brittany throws her head back, taken completely by the moment. Her head makes a solid clang against the metal grid behind her, and she curses as Santana breaks away, her eyes filling with concern.

"Shit," the Latina spits, taking Brittany's face between her cool palms. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine…" the blonde trails off as she violently shakes her head from side to side, trying to shake the stinging and the dizziness she's feeling. _Bad timing._

"I'm sorry. There's not enough goddamn _room,_" Santana almost shouts, sounding genuinely upset. "Nothing works for us! Not lifts, not making out, not dates, not favourite places!"

Brittany giggles, leaning against Santana's now rigid shoulder and rubbing the brunette's arm as she faces steadfastly to the big lights of the big city stretching out ahead of them. "Shhh, San. It's fine. We can just cuddle…"

She relents, her body relaxing with a sigh. "Cuddling is good." Santana wraps the nearest blanket round their huddled forms, and Brittany melts into the curve of her body as they stare down at the hustle and bustle beneath them. Kind of perfect. Not completely. Brittany's head is a little sore.

"Oh, and San?" Brittany mumbles into the Latina's shoulder, turning her face so she can see Santana's shadowed visage fully. "This time next week, we're going to my favourite place. There's plenty of room."

"Deal," she attests, taking Brittany's hand under the blanket and placing a gentle kiss on her hot forehead.

_tbc._

**definitely used a more than a little of my artistic license for this one.**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"You never mentioned she was a woman of mystery." Quinn leans back in her chair at their tiny dining table, eating a grilled cheese sandwich. She's been chatting pretty much incessantly to Santana's slim legs as they dance about on the surface in front of her, their owner hurriedly smoking her last few cigarettes out of the stupidly small window which sits at a stupid height from the floor.

"I didn't think she was, that's why!" If it's possible, she's even more on edge than she was before her last date with Brittany. "Q, help me!" she whines, stamping her foot and stubbing out her cigarette on the brick wall outside.

"With what?"

"What to wear! She said we were going to her favourite place…"

"Right. And?"

"It could be anywhere! Honestly, I don't think you get just how like… you know, this girl is!"

"What?" Quinn laughs and she does get it; she's been basking in all the opportunities to take the piss out of Santana's newfound bashfulness ever since the lift incident of two weeks previously.

"She's just so, like… you know!" Santana hops down from her perch on the table and checks her watch, running straight towards her bedroom when she realises the amount of time she has left to get ready.

"Take an outfit change then, you idiot," Quinn calls, throwing her crusts in the bin and herself on their sofa.

"Pure fucking genius Q," Santana yells back, slightly hysterical but rolling her eyes at the same time. Quinn giggles. "Shut up, Quinnie. You're going out tonight too!"

"What?"

"Get up, you lazy piece of shit. Quit moping around. Kurt's coming to pick you up in an hour, he's met some guy and he wants you all to go out…"

Quinn tuts audibly, not bothering with a response as she grumbles her way to her own room, shooting Santana a filthy look as she does so.

"Come on, Quinn. We need to get you out of this apartment!" Santana shouts as she wriggles under her bed in search of _that _pair of red heels, a glint in her eye as she does something she's practised for as long as she could remember – deflection. In this case, deflection of her own stress unto Quinn. She sprays some breath freshener into her mouth and tugs her heels on, pausing for a second in the mirror as she leaves her room. Wet look leggings, simple black racer vest top (low cut), amber pendant (present from Abuela, pre-disowning), red heels and a red skinny blazer. _Have you _ever_ looked more like a lesbian in your life?_

Quinn channels her inner chiding thoughts as they pass in the hallway. "Are you trying to blow out the gaydar of every second New Yorker?"

"Fuck off."

Quinn laughs, taking Santana by the hand and giving her a conciliatory kiss on the cheek as she opens the door to leave. "You look hot!" she calls down the hallway after Santana's retreating form. "Don't be too late home!"

* * *

Brittany swings her feet from side to side under her counter, spinning a set of keys around her finger; the perfect picture of fidgety energy. She's incredibly excited. She was going to meet a beautiful woman in a little bar, grab something to eat and have a little drink and then she was going to take her uptown and show her the most special place to her in the whole of the city; and it was going to be perfect.

She's just waiting for her alarm to chime at half past seven, and then she could finally leave the house and walk the short distance to the bar. God knows, she's been ready since five.

Pacing around her kitchen is her polar opposite, Sam's best friend Blaine. He's fiddling obsessively with his hair and pausing to look at himself in every single reflective surface.

"Blaine, dude. Can you not?" Sam speaks up from the sofa, flicking absent-mindedly between channels. "You're going to be cramping your own style if you carry on like this."

Blaine spins on his heel, almost knocking over Brittany's canister of incense sticks in his panic. "Really? Do you not think I look good enough? This guy is _so_ gorgeous…" He sighs dramatically, covering his face with his hands and flopping down next Sam on the sofa. "I told you guys the wax girl just _over _waxed them this week…"

Brittany's alarm rings and she pushes herself off the kitchen surface and lands with a graceful twirl. "Blaine, your eyebrows are completely fine."

Sam bursts out laughing, and Blaine punches him in the arm with a pout. "Sam, can't you wear something a little nicer? I mean, he did say he would bring a friend as well…"

Sam scoffs, punching Blaine right back. "Chicks dig faded jeans."

"_Chicks _dug faded jeans, in the eighties. Can you at least wear a shirt?"

"A clean one?"

"No, a dirty one. Yes, a clean one!"

Brittany lets their conversation wash over her as she ties her shoelaces sat crosslegged at the foot of her front door, peering at herself in the full length mirror – Blaine's idea – directly to its right. Duck cardigan, cute white blouse (kind of see through, black bra, somewhat intentional) loosely tucked in to a floaty blue skirt, knee length white socks and 'city look' Converse. She's kind of dressed to what she know Santana likes, and she smiles when she stands up and smooths her skirt out, tucking the keys into her purse.

"I'm off!" she hollers at the turned backs of Blaine and Sam, whistling her goodbye tune.

Sam whistles back in response, and Blaine cocks his head and waves at her. "Bye, Britt…"

She pokes her head round the door. "Blaine, don't be too nervous. He'll love you, everyone does! And Sam, maybe you should give this girl a chance. Bye, you guys…"

* * *

"You look… so beautiful." Santana all but breathes her words as Brittany waltzes into the bar, shaking her hair over her shoulders and wrapping her arms around her brunette date as she sits alone on a barstool.

"And you look incredibly hot. We should hook up."

Santana giggles, pinching Brittany's waist as the blonde takes a seat next to her. "So, I already ordered you a white wine and us some little fucking tapas." She gestures just how little these tapas are.

"So we have more time for our adventure?" Brittany pokes her back, sticking her tongue out.

Santana screws up her face in reproach and Brittany can see a little dimple she hadn't noticed before appear under her eye, and she wants to kiss it. The Latina huffs and turns away, sipping delicately on her glass of red.

"Just because you know I'm right…"

"When _aren't _you right?"

"Well, that would be never."

Brittany's drink arrives, followed shortly by the tapas; and there's not a lot of talking but there is a lot of footsie and staring into one another eyes across the bar as they share their meal and both subconsciously increase the rate at which they eat. If you could take a match to their particular shared sense of nervous energy, the whole place would be ablaze. Brittany pays for their meal this time – despite Santana's laments – and they walk to the subway station hand in hand; disembarking hand in hand at 77th street station to wander a few blocks hand in hand as the city darkens around them.

"So," Santana murmurs, playing with Brittany's fingers. "This is kind of near Central Park."

"Yay. You make a great detective, Ms. Lopez."

Santana nods, grinning. She's a little confused behind her smile; surely not even Central Park is special enough for Brittany? It's just not what she was expecting. Maybe Brittany knew some hidey-holes or some little passageways and they could kiss on the stars under the grass, and that would be lovely; but Santana was not equipped for any off-roading. These were her lucky heels.

So she's further confused as Brittany leads them down a street off Lexington Avenue, and they pass various restaurants and a chintzy book store before they both come to a stop outside a brick building.

"A school?" Santana blinks, shaking her head in utter disbelief.

"Okay, now you close your eyes!" Brittany claps her hands together and jumps on the spot, pulling the keys from her bag and unlocking a side door. Sure, she had to pull a few strings – perhaps she owes her friend Jack a few drinks for taking the spare keys from his bosses drawer – but this, surely, will be perfect.

She grabs Santana's waist and takes her inside, giggling as the Latina stumbles up several staircases, falling into Brittany's arms on more than one occasion, tripping over nothing.

_She's just falling because she wants to be caught. Aren't we all? _Brittany unlocks another door and covers Santana's eyes with her own hands before placing the brunette's hand on the door handle in front of her.

"Go on, open it."

Santana complies, swinging the door open and stepping inside a darkened room, opening her eyes as Brittany flicks a switch and the studio lights up. Spotlights shine softly in four lines around the perimeter of the – dance studio, is it? – giving the whole room an eerie sort of glow. Good eerie.

Santana just stands in the doorway, looking around; taking in the floor to ceiling length mirrors and the polished wooden floor, and the huge black blinds directly opposite her.

Brittany flicks another switch and they fly open, and Santana gasps as the perfect image of a dusky Central Parks fills her vision.

"Fuck…" she breathes, dropping her purse and grabbing Brittany by both hands to pull her into a glorious, deep kiss. "This… is… perfect…"

"I know." Brittany's brilliantly simple response makes Santana laugh, and she allows herself to be tugged over to the corner of the studio and deposited as Brittany runs over to the stereo and kicks the play button, taking a deep breath. Santana stands still in anticipation.

212 blasts out from the speaker system and Brittany curses and rushes straight back over, unable to quite comprehend how completely inappropriately timed that particular song was. Santana laughs again, running her hand along the metal bar. Brittany kicks next, and lingers by the side of the stereo just to make sure nothing else untoward comes on.

Thankfully, the next song to come on is Better Together, by Jack Johnson; and it's not just the right song, it's the perfect song. Santana's heartbeat quickens in the short few seconds of the introductory guitar. _She remembered._

Brittany's dancing is breath-taking, and the Latina finds herself leaning heavily against the bar just to keep from collapsing with some sheer yet unknown force or feeling of pure affection and adoration of the fluidly moving figure in front of her. Brittany's form skips up and down the studio, shadowed by the light and standing out against Central Park behind her, and it's utterly magical.

Santana is completely lost for words, so when Brittany flits over and extends her hand she can't exactly protest. So they dance, Brittany leading and holding the smaller woman in her arms while she does her best to follow the steps the dancer appears to just make up on the spot. It's as if she's feeling the music, and the music itself is telling her where to go. They dance for a few more songs – a strangely perfect mix of Regina Spektor (Us), Otis Redding (Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay) and Gyptian (Hold You) – and then some Adele (Hometown Glory) plays out and Brittany pulls a huge red cushion from the left side closest to the window and they flop down on to it because 'this song is basically impossible to dance to'.

"I told you there'd be plenty of space," Brittany whispers, kissing Santana's neck as the Latina lies completely still, watching the park and the city beyond it through the huge window.

"Yeah…" comes the response, muffled as it is, for Brittany has reached Santana's lips. "But where to next?" she continues, turning her head so it faces Brittany's completely. "I mean, we still haven't finished the game…"

Brittany raises an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Okay, so here's the question for next time. What's your favourite meal to have cooked for you?"

"Let me give it some thought." Santana raises an eyebrow right back. _Play it cool, Lopez._

Brittany giggles. "Is this perfect for you too?"

"Yeah, it's perfect. I couldn't imagine anything possibly better, ever." Santana brings her hand slowly from Brittany's knee to her upper thigh, staring deep into the blue eyes opposite her.

"You do know –"

"We can't make love here? Yes, I know, it's a school –" Santana winks, opening her eyes wide and nodding sincerely.

"Good –"

"But we can still, just... kiss?"

"I'm in if you are."

And Santana rolls over so she's almost atop Brittany, and she pushes her shoulders down and kisses her greedily while the lights of the city blink on behind her and Central Park is shrouded in shadowy darkness.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"You have two seconds to turn that crap off, or I'm going all Lima Heights on your skinny white ass."

Santana was exasperated. Brittany was coming to pick her up in five minutes, and Quinn had her iPod playing a song entitled 'Babycakes' and thought it would be appropriate to slutdrop her way around their apartment.

"We grew up together, douchebag. And no, I'm being supportive! She likes it down low. So do you."

Santana ignored her. "Give me back my black flats, the ones with the metal things. I know you took them, you sneaky bitch."

"Eugh." Quinn grunts, stomping in to her own room and lying flat out under her bed, fishing around for the shoes she had hidden away from her roommate. "Not your red heels?"

"No. And no, you can't wear them."

"Like I'd want to, they're dreadful."

"You're a knob."

"You love it."

"Do you have a date tonight?"

"Yeah, at eight, at La Squisito …" Quinn stands up straight and almost subconsciously flattens her dress, smoothing back her hair, a serious expression falling across her features. She was smitten. "He's pretty great."

Santana grinned, dodging and catching the shoes Quinn throws at her from the doorway. "Thanks, baby." She was ready now, and she'd answer the door to her date and then they'd go back to hers and have a lovely meal.

"Eugh," Quinn grunts again, irritated. She wanted to wear them.

"If you steal my shit again, Fabray. I know you take my cigarettes –"

"You take my stuff all the fucking time! Where's my dress collar? I know you took that!"

"That was Kurt, you prick!"

"Whatever, Santana! Did Kurt take my vibrator batteries too?"

"One, they're not special batteries, you fucking idiot. Two, _you_ should use the rechargeable ones. Three, don't be so rude. I have other people to get me off."

"Yeah, well. I fucking know that, don't I?"

Their shouting had moved into the hallway where Santana was pulling her shoes on and trying to make sure Quinn would not be the one to answer the door when Brittany knocked in two minutes. Brittany herself was stood outside, smirking as her date and her roommate bickered on and on and on. She wondered when she should knock the door, and she was answered when Santana begins swearing in Spanish and it sounded as if Quinn had thrown quite a substantial object at Santana who was laughing terribly less than a foot away from her. _Okay, so they're crazy. I'll just knock._

Brittany knocked, just as Santana ran down across the apartment laughing and still trying to tug her left shoe on, her dress riding up; and Quinn combined opening the door with a slutdrop in order to pick up her wedge sandal.

"Shit," Quinn says simply, looking Brittany up and down, a somewhat apologetic look on her face. "Sorry, sorry, sorry! Not shit! It's great to meet you, Brittany. I've heard a lot about you."

Brittany doesn't really know what to say. "Oh! Good stuff?"

"Loads of good stuff. You're taller than I imagined," Quinn nodded to enforce her point, taking a step back into her apartment and turning to the side, welcoming Brittany inside. "I don't know where she's gone, really. So, you actually met in a lift? Isn't that really weird? I probably would have murdered her if I were you," she chats amicably, fluffing a hand through her blonde hair.

"Uh…" Brittany flounders, and Quinn sharpens her hazel-eyed stare.

"Articulate, huh?"

_Wait, what? _"What?"

Santana runs back from her bedroom, holding a water gun and training it straight at the spit Quinn was standing not thirty seconds ago. "Shit," she says, dropping her weapon and rushing forward to embrace Brittany and push Quinn out of the way. "Hi, B. Sorry about her; I'm ready to go, so we can just…"

Brittany swallowed, suddenly nervous. Quinn's wide toothy grin, and Santana's water gun, and the various thongs hanging on the light fittings, and the duvet in the middle of the floor covered in peanuts are all things that would make everyone who wasn't Kurt just a little uneasy.

"Uh, Britt? You okay?"

"Yeah… Good." Brittany waves awkwardly at Quinn who beams back, and turns as Santana follows her out of the apartment. "Nice to meet you, Quinn."

"You too! Have a nice evening, ladies!"

Santana draws her hand across her throat and gives Quinn a two finger salute as a goodbye.

"That was… overwhelming?" Brittany winces as they skip down the stairs hand in hand, taking a few deep breaths.

"Yeah, sorry," Santana responds, but she doesn't really look sorry. "I hate her. She can't slutdrop. All the issues stem from there."

"I could totally teach her,"

"Oh, yeah?" Santana winks and Brittany blushes. "So, what's for dinner?"

* * *

"Chicken, a la Brittany!" the blonde proclaims, whipping the lid off of a large baking dish and clapping her hands. "Yay!"

A big smile spreads across Santana's face, and she takes Brittany's hand across the table. "I'm impressed. You cook, dance and you're really, really hot."

Brittany blows Santana a kiss and flips a limp wrist. "Ooh, stop it!"

"What makes the chicken like, Brittany, then?"

The blonde rolls her eyes. "Santana, I thought you were supposed to be clever. I made it, duh."

"Oh, of course! Silly me."

Brittany kicks her under the table, and they both giggle. Brittany set the – tiny – table with a cut up velvety dress as a tablecloth, little blue goblets as their wine glasses, the most ornate of cutlery, the chintzy-est of plates and the most beautiful candles Santana has ever seen. There are candles all over the place. There aren't actually any lights on, it's just there's so many candles balancing on every single surface. Brittany's apartment glows. She's not usually one to appreciate candles, but the purple and red especially are just the most gorgeous things she's ever seen. Besides Brittany, of course. She's just enjoying swimming in her gorgeous blue orbs when a horrific screeching noise sounds from a bedroom and the blonde jolts in her seat, recognition flashing across her face.

"Crap! That's my cat… I forgot to feed him," she explains, rushing up from her chair and wiggling over to the kitchen, grabbing a packet of M&M's from the counter. Santana leans back and admires her for a few seconds, taking in the sky blue laced dress and the little white flats and the long blonde perfectly-curled hair.

"I quite like cats, like some cats…" the Latina replies eventually, shaking herself out of her reverie. _Right, cats. Why did you say that? You hate the fucking things._

"Oh, he's not just some cat." Brittany smirks as she shakes the M&M's into a cat bowl and skips off to find her beloved pet. Santana nods, gasping a little when Brittany heaves the hugest cat she's ever seen back into the room.

"Shit…"

"Santana, meet Lord Tubbington. Tubbs, meet Santana."

Santana waves at the cat-beast, flashing him a flirty smile. Lord Tubbington hisses. _What the _fuck _is that?_

Brittany takes her seat once more as the cat meanders over to the food bowl and begins rattling the sweets around the metal. Santana raises an eyebrow, thoroughly perplexed. "Why doesn't he like me?"

"He doesn't warm to strangers very easily, and he likes candy and smoking. He's probably threatened by the similarities between the two of you," she responds matter-of-factly, and Santana nods her head slowly, narrowing her eyes.

"I see." Santana really doesn't see, but she tries not to let her face betray her confusion and instead focusses on her meal in front of her. She coughs. "So, you're like the best chef in the whole of Manhattan?"

Brittany giggles. "Pretty much, if you're excluding some of the Italians," she takes a sip of her wine before continuing, "some of them just have the nicest food ever. Have you ever been to La Squisito, a few blocks from here?"

"I haven't. But it's funny you mention it, Quinn's going there tonight."

"I have to take you some day. It's amazing. Is she going on a date?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why?" Santana lifts her own goblet to her lips, licking them before she sips. "And, of course."

_She's just so hot, I can't. _"Uh, Sam's going there tonight. On a date. And he always takes girls there, like always…"

Santana raises an eyebrow again in disbelief. "Shit. Small world? I never ask Quinn who she's going out with anymore. I gave up when my response was a rather defensive 'just because he's married, doesn't mean he doesn't love me'."

"Small world," Brittany attests, nodding and taking a bite of her chicken. "That's actually really weird. You know what else is weird?"

Santana cocks her head to the side, smiling indulgently. "What, B?"

"The fact we met in a lift."

"And now you're cooking me dinner."

"Man, I am a good cook..."

Santana's finished. Well, she's eaten as much as she intends to, which is probably just over half. It looks like more though, and she doesn't want to bloat. "You're amazing, Britt," she slides her bare foot up Brittany's calf, and the blonde smiles so incredibly sultry-like that Santana thinks it must be the hottest thing she's ever seen. "So, what's for dessert?" She repeats her question, wink at the ready.

"You tell me."

* * *

Lord Tubbington yowls and scratches at the door. Sam chuckles as he clears away two cold, half-eaten plates of food at two that morning. Quinn chuckles as she returns to an empty apartment, a text from her roommate detailing her plans to stay at 'Britt's'. Brittany wakes up with her arms wrapped around a petite woman with tanned skin who's not wearing anything which is so sexy it should probably be illegal. Santana opens her eyes and feels the touch of another around her waist for the first time in what seems to her like years. And she doesn't get straight up and gather her clothes from the floor and sneak out as quickly as possible; she rolls over and bumps her nose against Brittany's, their faces not centimetres apart but millimetres, and their bodies somehow even closer.

* * *

**Penultimate chapter? Regardless, I think/hope you'll appreciate the next one. Kisses.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**One year on –**

"Chilly out there, huh?" Sam pulls his hoodie closer around himself and shivers, nodding solemnly to the attendant in the janitorial office and sending a secretive wink to his girlfriend. She rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, I guess…" the attendant replies halfheartedly, pursing his lips.

"Definitely not what we're used to down south, huh?" Sam continues, walking closer toward the glass covered office and nodding his head like a dog.

"Definitely not," the janitor agrees, scratching the back of his head and looking around uncertainly.

"Quit nodding…" Quinn whispers in Sam's ear from directly behind him as they step ever closer to the door, and the janitor looks ever more uncomfortable.

"Can I help you guys?" The janitor shifts in his chair.

"Uh, yeah, actually. I'm actually a building janitor type thing back home in Nashville, my little lady and I are just visiting a friend of ours, and she said the system here was different…"

Quinn treads deliberately on his foot. "I resent that," she hisses, scowling at him. Little lady?

"So, you're asking to come in and have a look at the system?" The janitor gets up from his seat, bemused. He was a tall guy with a military haircut and his sleeves rolled up; and his cheeks were reddening a little because he felt like he was missing a trick and being a little slow on the uptake and he had been told that he was for his whole life.

Sam smiles, his lips spreading wide across his face. "I guess I am, yes, sir."

The janitor makes his way over to the door, completely and utterly puzzled but characteristically benevolent. "Please, call me Finn."

Quinn counts down from five to one under her breath, the door clicking open when she reaches one. Finn takes a step out to allow Sam into the office and she dives between his ridiculously long legs, dragging a stuffed holdall with her and slamming the door shut when Finn turns a slow circle of confusion and looks for a few long seconds at the spot where Quinn stood. "Hey!" he shouts upon realising that he's just been locked outside of his own office by a crazy blonde southerner and his crazy blonde girlfriend. "Dude, what the hell?"

Sam spins on the spinny chair in front of a desk adorned with hundreds of exciting levers and buttons, pressing the intercom with relish. "Finn, I can explain."

Finn's eyes widen incredulously and he looks around desperately for some sort of support. But it's half twelve in the morning and there's only a few people who are still even in the building, fewer still who would sympathise with him leaving his office open to strangers completely voluntarily. He groans, low and long. "What the hell? Give me one good reason I shouldn't be calling the police right about now!"

Sam holds his hands up and Quinn presses the intercom to allow him to talk. "I'll give you one brilliant reason and fifty bucks?"

Finn cocks his head, interested. Sam grins.

* * *

**Me and White Chocolate are safely in and positioned. He's trying to work out the buttons, so hold tight. Gay Oracle and Curly Wizard are en route with Britt. It's all going perfectly, you lucky fucker. And don't tell me the nicknames are stupid, because I don't care. X**

**_Whatever makes you happy bab. Tell me when she's in the building. And thank you. X_**

Quinn perches on Sam's lap as the two of them spin round and round and round on the janitor's chair, trying to figure out how to work all these goddamn buttons, smiling as she reads Santana's latest text and giggling as Sam nips her earlobe with tiny kisses that tickle.

She couldn't really articulate the recent change in both her and Santana of late. It was bizarre, really; how different they both were with their partners who represented their polar opposites. Well, not so much with Quinn herself. She was actually a complete dork but growing up who she was in high school, she had ended up hiding her Star Wars discs inside the latest Rihanna albums and Twilight DVDs, just in case. But Sam just didn't care, and they were free to eat salted peanuts together and watch Balls of Steel and old James Bond movies and go to seedy jazz dives and bad Mexican restaurants; and Quinn could be completely herself and she found an unprecedented number of genuine smiles beginning to cross her face because they did so many things that were just plain stupid but just the best things at the same time. Santana said they were both adorably disgusting and disgustingly adorable.

Quinn jumps up, attempting to regain her focus post-dizziness. Sam darts a look to his left and shakes his blonde hair, pressing a few levers down and brushing his shoulders.

"Ground control to Major Tom… Commencing countdown…" He nudges Quinn.

She pretends to be reluctant in joining in. "Engines…"

"On." Sam turns to her and grins. "Are you going to carry on, or do I have to?" He pauses. "Fine. Take your protein pills and –"

"Sam!" Quinn ruffles his hair and he pokes out his tongue. "We need to concentrate. Where's the one that takes out the security cameras?"

"Do you not feel like you're at NASA, or something?" he interjects, his dopey grin spreading way across his lips and lighting up his eyes.

"No, I don't. Because I'm not; I'm sat in somebody else's ass dent in shitty chair in a forgettable New York City office block with my idiot boyfriend taking part in some idiot plan my idiot best friend came up with when she was drunk." Quinn reclines in her own spinny chair, folding her arms.

"Easy, Agent Fabray! Are we going to be stuck in here all night?"

She groaned. "I don't think Santana factored that in when we drew up the blueprint."

"Oh…" Sam mutters, exhaling a gentle whistle. "You must really love her."

"It's tragic," Quinn agrees, wheeling herself closer to the control panel. "But I do totally feel like I'm some nuclear weapons commander, so she's kind of 'gifting the gay ass nerd in me a really fun evening'," she quotes, blinking at the buttons and levers in front of her. "So, I'm guessing the red one is total shut down?"

"Alright! We have lift off!"

"No, no, we don't."

"That wasn't intentional…" he replies, affronted.

"I know, babe. I know."

Quinn leaps from her chair over to Sam's, knocking the three of them back across the room as she kisses him greedily and subconsciously strokes his abs through his plain white t-shirt. He mumbles incoherently, overwhelmed; and she just smiles into his lips and they almost miss the ringing of Quinn's phone.

* * *

"So, Britt, how was Los Angeles?" Blaine pulls to a stop at a junction three blocks away from the building. Kurt has just phoned Quinn to inform her that 'the cat is in the basket, repeat, the cat is in the basket'.

If Brittany's confused, she's not showing it. "So good! The weather is a lot nicer out there. I don't think we had a single gust of wind in all of the twenty one days we stayed there."

"God, I can't believe you were gone that long! We've all been going mad. Well, Santana's been going mad, and she's been driving the rest of us insane too," Kurt interjects, leaning forward so his face is between the driver and passenger seats.

"Mmm. I missed her. How come she didn't come to pick me up from the airport?" Brittany wonders out loud, a little hurt crossing her tone. She had, after all, been gone for almost a month, out in California teaching summer dance school classes. And sure, Santana didn't want her to go – even though they both knew the second Brittany got the offer that she would – but in Brittany's mind, that would surely mean she would want to see her the second she got back? It was a little puzzling.

"You'll see!" Blaine beams into his wing mirror, and Kurt flashes him a dangerous look. Blaine was a lot of things, but subtle was not one of them. His part in the plan was therefore to be kept very limited, and Kurt was given permission to flick him whenever he spoke a little too much.

"Uh, Blaine. We take a left off 7th for my apartment…"

Blaine grins again, and Kurt flicks him on the back of the neck. "Who says we're going to yours?"

"And Santana and Quinn's is way back there…" Brittany pauses, raising an eyebrow. "Blaine, are you drunk?"

"I had a beer to calm my nerves, yes," Blaine sighs theatrically, rubbing the throbbing spot where Kurt hit him. "But my lightweight days are over."

"Blaine! Shut up!" Kurt slaps Blaine upside the head at the next red light, murmuring an 'I swear to God' in his ear, sending tingles down Blaine's spine.

"Okay, no more talking." Blaine takes a hand off the steering wheel and pretends to zip his lips shut, looking dreamily at Kurt in the wing mirror. Kurt blushes, and Brittany feels a bizarre sort of tension begin to rise in the car so she coughs before it gets too awkward for her.

The remainder of the journey passes in a terse silence, with Kurt bouncing up and down excitedly on his seat, an offended Blaine staring directly out of the window in front of him, and Brittany fiddling with her watch somewhat nervously, wondering what the fuck was going on. It's a good job she likes surprises.

_But like Santana always says, nothing is ever conventional with us. Especially not the sweet lady kisses. Hopefully it'll be a nice surprise. I hope she likes my tan._

* * *

"Hit the deck!" Quinn cries as Kurt and Brittany round a corner in front of her, tugging Sam down on top of her and furiously typing a text to Santana. She peeps up through one of the glass panels a few seconds later, watching as a pair of Italian leather boots and patent blue loafers pass by, on their way to the lift. She slides the holdall back to the door in preparation for Kurt's return.

"Here we go," Sam rubs his hands together and Quinn nods, relaxing into his body as they wait for their second phone call.

They can't hear Brittany giving Kurt the third degree, and she can't see them hiding in the janitorial office, poised over some buttons like two blonde supervillians.

"Kurt, will you please just give me one tiny clue? Why am I here?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. He loves this game of smoke and mirrors and mystery, absolutely loves it. He probably had more of an input in the grand date plan than Santana herself; he drew up the goddamn blueprints. "I'm not at liberty to divulge that information," he teases, drawing himself up to his full height and throwing back his shoulders.

"Just one thing!" They stand together waiting for the lift, and Brittany turns to Kurt with the widest eyes and most ridiculously cute pout. "Please! I've been away for like a year, and now I'm back and none of my friends will tell me what's going on!"

Kurt relents a little, deciding that it must be the jet lag delaying Brittany's figuring out the whole situation. "I'll give you one clue."

"Yes!" The lift dings into place, and they both step inside. Kurt presses the button for the 34th floor, and Brittany nods furtively in anticipation.

"Okay," he draws out the word, and about ten floors pass before he starts talking. "Think about it – what's the day?"

"September the second,"

"And what's the significance of that day?"

"Oh! I met Santana. Crap, how did I forget?" _Oh, double crap with knobs on. It's okay though, she won't blame me! She knows I've been away. It'll be fine!_

"And what building were you in when you met her?"

Brittany wrinkles her nose as the lift comes to a stop. "This one. Our date is in her office?"

"I'll leave her to explain," Kurt winks exaggeratedly as he comes to a halt outside the aforementioned office, stepping away from the door to allow Brittany a path in. She's never been to Santana's office before. "Have a nice date…"

* * *

Brittany gasps out loud when she sees Santana, standing shyly in front of a messy desk and huge bay windows; looking completely breathtaking in a black lace dress and _those _heels.

She can't help but drop her purse and run straight forward into her open arms, giggling and kissing every inch of her face she can possibly reach.

"I'm so happy to see you," the blonde whispers into Santana's long dark hair, breathing in her perfume and the smell of her skin. "You look so beautiful."

Santana wipes at the corner of her eye. _Damn it, Lopez. You're going soft. _"Hey, Britt-Britt. How have you been?"

"Not too bad, yourself?" She nibbles at the sensitive point on Santana's neck, smiling when she feels the Latina relax against her. Nothing's really changed. "Why are we here, in your office?"

"I have a picnic, and we can have some San-Britt time?" Avoiding the question, Santana takes her girlfriend by the hand and pulls her to the window where she's laid out a ridiculously cute blanket and some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off, especially for Brittany. "How comes you look so good, anyway? Weren't you on a cross-country flight? What's your secret?"

"I dressed up a little for the flight. Maybe I was hoping you'd take me out after I landed. It wasn't that comfortable," Brittany blushes and Santana smiles, pressing a chaste kiss on her lips before pouring a little wine into a goblet (a Christmas present from Brittany). "So, how has everything been? And where are we going tonight?"

"Uh, everything's been pretty good. B, we skyped every single day. Sometimes twice. You know everything's been good!" Santana pauses, letting her words linger in the air. "Who says we have to go anywhere, Britt-Britt?"

Brittany snaps her fingers in a Z formation. "Santana, you said you had something important to tell me…" Secretly, Brittany was worried Santana was going to propose or ask her to come and live with her or something. And while (obviously) they weren't things Brittany was averse to, they just didn't make sense for the two of them at the stage they were in their relationship. It had only been a year, after all. But she could totally see them living together and Santana telling her off for not cleaning the bath and then they could get married and she would definitely wear the suit because that's just so cool and a total hip-lesbian move in this day and age.

And just like countless other things that had just slipped out of her mouth – like when she asked Quinn if she had ever slept with Santana and if kissing Sam was like being sucked on by a hoover – as she thought them through, she spoke them; and she ended up blurting her whole prophecy to Santana.

The Latina giggles and pops a grape into her mouth, and Brittany can tell she's trying to peel it with her teeth. "No, no. Nothing like that, B. Do you know me but at all?" she queries, raising an eyebrow in a sarcastic style Brittany has grown accustomed to. "I was just going to say that me and Q were offered a few hundred bucks a month for hosting adverts on our blog, and that leaves us with a bit of extra money. So, we can take that trip out to Thailand next year?" She rushes her words a little in excitement, smiling as she talks. Brittany just stares at her, taking everything in.

"Wait, wait. A few hundred bucks for adverts on your blog? San, that's great!" Brittany claps her hands together and pinches Santana's waist, letting her tongue poke out from her lips, super-flirty like. "How much is a few?"

Santana swallows. "Uh, eight hundred? I don't want to make too big a deal about it, like you know… The blog is kind of…"

"Abrasive?"

"Well –"

"Abusive?"

Santana throws a grape at Brittany, who catches it and sucks it up into her mouth, winking. "Whatever, B! If you don't like it, you can –"

Brittany purses her lips and cocks her left eyebrow in a near faultless impression of Santana. She only swears when she's being Santana, and it's like a strange release. "Fuck off," she completes her girlfriend's sentence, rolling the words around her tongue.

"Just like –"

"Mami used to say…" Brittany mumbles, looking at her goblet intently. This bit is kind of embarrassing.

"And _when_ did she say?" Santana smirks, trailing a lazy hand over Brittany's thigh, gazing into her blue eyes.

Brittany sighs. "Back in Lima Heights."

"Damn straight, that's how we did it in Lima Heights!"

Brittany groans, and then sighs, again. "Santana…"

"Sorry, sorry. So, give me an executive summary of L.A,"

"It was so nice! Mike and I pretty much taught classes twenty-four seven and that was so fun, like I'm not sure whether everyone is more talented in New York or L.A. I met some of the coolest kids ever though, and they taught me the best drinking game ever –"

"Britt –"

"Don't worry; it wasn't like a real drinking game. They had adult supervision –"

"But you were drinking too?" Santana giggles.

Brittany flips her hands, looking pointedly out of the window. "Whatever! It wasn't like we were their real teachers, anyway. What else did we do…? Oh yeah, I stayed with my sister for the week out in San Francisco which was totally cool, because I really miss her. I think you'd like her, you know." Brittany rambles on and on about her big sister and Santana _is _listening, just staring really deeply into Brittany's eyes at the same time. It's not her fault they're so distracting.

Her phone buzzes.

**Kurt has done up your pad. We've handled the security issue, and we know how to sort the whole movement thing. I regret to inform you that music isn't possible, but I did put a few new tracks on your phone while you were in the shower, just in case (some of my personal favourites). Quinntervention, over and out. X**

Brittany finishes her little speech, and Santana smiles, coughing really, really lightly as she leans her head to the side and bats her eyelashes.

"B, wanna get out of here?" she says, her voice low and husky and Brittany's heat skips a beat because she knows what it means.

"No offence, but yes. Totally."

"Right," the brunette says, her own heart leaping about in her chest and making her voice shake a little. She grabs Brittany's hand and they're almost skipping together to the lift, looking into one another's eyes and being completely adorable.

She lets Brittany call the lift, and unlocks her phone, ready to send the pre-prepared text.

It dings into place, and the two of them step in. The lift door shuts and it begins to travel, and Santana presses the green button on her screen.

**_NOW X_**

Brittany's eyes widen as she takes in the very same lift in which they met, unable to stop her eyes glancing up toward the vents, just in case. They're already popped out, which is weird, and her gaze travels downward and her eyes widen even further.

Then three things happen at once.

Brittany has a split second chance to absorb the fairy lights hanging from the ceiling and the red and purple velvet blankets piled on the floor, the pictures of the two of them in Central Park on the walls, the little packets of Wonka sweets nestled in the left hand corner; the smell of Santana's perfume and the feel of her hands around her waist.

Santana turns her around and all but pushes her to the floor, her lips crashing into Brittany's and her hands suddenly travelling everywhere on Brittany's body so fast yet so soft; leaning over her and kissing her greedily, like she'll never get another chance to, like she needs it more than anything else in this world.

The lift grinds to a halt.

_t-b-c!_


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"San – tan – a…" Brittany gasps between long, hard kisses. She looks up and finds euphoria lighting up the brunette's eyes and just stops talking, instead grabbing her closer and pulling her small frame over her own body, moving and grinding against her like it was only natural to.

"Do you like it?" Santana asks with a smirk, her kisses and soft bites trailing down Brittany's neck to her breasts, to her stomach; the blonde's heart quickening with each nip.

"Wait, Santana…" Brittany tries to calm herself down, taking her girlfriend's head between her hands and cocking it up, so her chin lay on Brittany's toned abs. She can just make out Santana's messy hair and glinting eyes and feverish breath. _Wow. _"What about the lift camera… and the doors… and the moving…?" she stumbles over her words, pausing as Santana's hair tickles her exposed stomach.

"B, Quinn and Sam have turned everything off. We have as long as you want." _This is fucking awesome. You owe Kurt at least fifty bucks; glowing stars on the ceiling? Fairy lights? Pictures? He's even sprayed it with your perfume._

And with that, Brittany takes Santana's hair and pulls her face right up next to her own, blue eyes locking on brown; both overcome with desire. "You're amazing, San."

Still not entirely comfortable with compliments, Santana blushes and bites her lip, sliding her tanned hands under the blonde's blouse, smiling as she feels the shiver cross her girlfriend's body and sees the arousal cross Brittany's face. She arches her back under the growing pressure of Santana's touches as they play further and further down her body, caressing every part of her she can reach and leaving metaphorical burning marks of love that Brittany can feel heating her up from the inside.

"Lay back, B. This is for you."

"But… why? You've already done all this for us –" the blonde rushes, her eyes fluttering and her concentration slipping despite her best efforts.

Santana interrupts her with another kiss. "And if it wasn't for you, in this _lift_, there'd be no 'us'. So lie back, please," she pleads, her voice low and husky.

Brittany relents and lets her head rest on the pillow behind her, her legs twisting of their own accord when Santana draws tiny circles about her hip, pushing her fingers gently under the lace of Brittany's panties. _Sky blue_, she notices_, _smiling as she moves to run her tongue around the crest of the bone her fingers danced on not a second or two ago.

Brittany just notices the music playing from Santana's phone, and she can feel the hum against the lowermost point of her stomach as the Latina sings along, ever-so quietly.

"If I ain't got nothing, I got you. If I ain't got something, I don't give a damn, 'cause I got it with you…"

Brittany sighs when Santana stops singing, tangling her fingers in her girlfriend's long dark hair as she slowly pulls the lace away from Brittany's hot skin and peppers the newly exposed flesh with tiny kisses and nips, running her tongue teasingly above Brittany's folds.

The song changes.

An unknowably light noise passes from the blonde's lips when Santana begins a slow suck and press and hum, her tongue circling Brittany's clit and pushing on and on and on; relishing the gasps and moans that escape thickly from the blonde's lips as she pushes desperately for her release. And when she finds it, she lets go of Santana's hair; and is met with the full force of the Latina's kiss. She tastes kind of like oranges and lemons.

_It must have been California. _She drifts off for a second or two, lying in her post-orgasm paradise and lazily fingering the hem of Santana's dress as they kiss and move against one another, their legs curling together in the blanket.

Their kisses grow more urgent as Brittany's desire for her girlfriend surges; they break away so Brittany can pull at the back of Santana's little black dress and tug it over her head, uncovering shamelessly red and black underwear. It's Brittany's favourite bra on her, and the little gesture doesn't go unappreciated – the blonde giggles and massages her (equal) favourite part of Santana's body, popping her breast out from its confines and feeling her nipples harden under Brittany's own deft touch.

"Sing," she instructs as Santana opens her eyes. "Sing," she repeats. It's not forceful, but the tone is commanding and Santana complies quickly, easily. Like always.

"All along it was a fever… a cold sweat, hot-headed believer. I threw my hands in the air, I said show me something; she said, if you dare come a little closer –"

She inhales sharply, cutting herself off as Brittany plays with her panties; fingers against soft fabric, not skin. "Please," she breathes.

"Sing until you can't," Brittany whispers, biting at the flesh around Santana's shoulder blade, determined to leave her mark. _She's all mine._ She removes the dampened satin with the same deftness, and Santana tips her head back.

A shaky breath, and the song continues. "Round and around and around and around we go. Ohhh, now tell me now tell me now, tell me now you know…"

Brittany pushes deeper and deeper inside Santana, skilfully and lightly moving her fingers to exactly where the Latina needs them; continuing to bruise the flawless skin of her shoulder and collar and breasts with ever-hardening bites and draws. She grins when Santana bucks beneath her, encouraging her to go deeper and feel every hot and wanting inch of Santana's core. "Keep going –" she sinks down onto Santana's right breast and feels a writhing beneath her.

Santana's voice rises and peaks with every movement of her body against Brittany's. "Not really sure how to feel about it, something in the way you move. Makes me feel like I can't live without you, it takes me all the way, I want you to stay…"

Brittany moves faster and faster as Santana holds the note; ascending into a strangely quiet scream as she's sent flying over the edge and into a state of utter intoxicated bliss. They breathe heavily and in sync and kiss for longer than they ever have before, just needing to feel one another close and real; sweaty and alive and in love.

Santana murmurs and mumbles in Spanish, drawing little pictures on Brittany's stomach as they lie entwined; in delirium. "Te necesito… eres parte de mi, y te amo... te quiero, Brittany."

Brittany turns and smiles, finding her girlfriend's eyes as the fairy lights flicker behind them, casting shadows over her dark eyes, still clouded with lust. "Te quiero, Santana. I love you, I love you with pretty much all I am."

They shift in synchronisation once more, like they both just _know _where to fit around one another, and they're lying back, staring at the stars glowing on the ceiling of the lift. Santana's head rests in the crook between Brittany's shoulder and neck; the blondes' arms lie loosely over her torso, rising and falling with every breath entering her lungs.

Santana's iPod still plays quietly, running through songs on a designated playlist.

They lie for ten, maybe twelve, songs; the music flowing over them and their energies flowing into one another. It's as if everything around them is only semi-real, and they're merely floating in the haze of chance and providence, fantasy and verisimilitude.

"Do you believe in fate, B?"

Brittany opens an eye. "Like, soulmates?"

"Yeah, soulmates. Do you believe you were _meant_ to step into the same lift as me, and the lift was _meant _to break down for hours in the middle of the night?"

"It seems too good to be true, right?" Brittany plays with Santana's bracelets, jangling them up and down her wrist. "I think so, yeah. And if we didn't find each other then, or in this life, then it would've happened at some point. Soulmates, I think. It's almost too perfect."

"Almost too perfect," Santana echoes, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "I can't believe it – I just, I feel just so fucking _lucky, _I don't know what I did to deserve you. Like before you, what did I do? If the lift didn't stop, where would I be? Probably underneath some next blonde girl on my couch, after a busy day of soulless work and arguing with my roommate," she rambles, not even bothering to stop herself. "You've just changed _everything. _You're like my volta, my turning point; my change. I know we're only dating at the moment but it's just like everything's a hundred million miles an hour when I'm with you, and it's so natural and easy and perfect, I just –"

"Shh –"

"No, it's like I never really loved anybody, not truly. Like I always had one foot on the ground, always. But with you, it's just like –" Santana breaks off, trying to control a small sob. _What has gone and come over you now, Lopez? Love, is it? Wow._

"It was completely meant to be." Brittany nuzzles her girlfriend's hair. _Does she think I can't feel her crying? Oh, Santana. _"It's inevitable. If we were worms, we'd probably end up caved in a soil tunnel together, forced to entertain ourselves while our families work to dig us out. If we were birds, our nests would be blown away together and we'd have to work together to get back home. They'd probably make a film about us. If we were bees, we'd get trapped in the same flower; if we were cats, we'd want to claim the same spot on the roof garden as our peeing plot. If we were colours, I'd be black and you'd be white. I'd be red and you'd be pink. We'd be like, married. If we weren't like alive in that state, I'd be the DVD and you'd be the DVD player." Brittany smiled broadly, letting her thoughts run away with her. "That's how soulmates work. Wherever one of our souls is, the other is too. Metaphorically, literally, physically; I'm with you. It was completely meant to be, I'm sure of it."

"Do you really think so?" Santana tentatively wipes at her closed eyelids, missing Brittany's look of complete and utter adulation at her curled form.

"Do you really need to ask that question?"

Santana laughs, ever so lightly. "I guess not."

"Do you believe in soulmates then, San?" Brittany pauses, a smile flickering across her lips. "Forgive me for assuming you're probably much too cynical and smart for all –"

Santana turns where she lies, super-quickly; and she threads her slim arms around Brittany's waist with a fierce strength and a fiercer kiss to the blonde's still-parted lips. "Do you really need to ask that question?"

* * *

**1+1 (Beyonce)**

**Stay (Rihanna, ft. Mikky Ekko)**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Are you fucking with me?" Santana spits at Quinn from across their living room as she hastily packs her suitcase, throwing a cushion to further enforce her words. "Are you actually shitting me, for real?"

Quinn just giggles, dodging the cushion easily and neatly folding up a blouse, putting it on the table for Santana to pack away. "Santana, get a grip. You can't take the coffee machine with you, and you know that. Stop deflecting and being a little bitch about it."

"Fuck you, Quinn. This was your idea, and now you're telling me I can't take the coffee machine," she shouts, her voice lowering to a mumble as she balls up several mini-dresses and stuffs them into her case, scowling. "Bullshit," she grumbles. "Absolute bullshit."

She throws two tubs of nicotine gum into her bag with particular gusto, almost screaming.

"Oh, shut up. That's a disgusting noise. What's this really about, huh? I know it's not about coffee, and I know it's not because of the smoking ban on Brittany's building."

Santana ignores the question and thumps the clothes in her bag over and over again, trying to make them lie flat. Quinn nudges her out the way and begins repacking, folding and humming as she does so, and Santana curses and stomps to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The whistle of the boiling water splits the silence of their apartment.

"I didn't consent to this," she says finally, setting her coffee cup down with a crack.

"And forgive me for assuming you wouldn't react like this," Quinn fires back, finishing the packing and setting herself across from Santana. "You need to cut the bullshit right about now, Santana. Brittany's excited, so is Sam, so am I, and you're just being crazy irrational, even for you," she adds, finding Santana's eyes with a hard stare.

The Latina huffs. "Whatever."

"Is it because you'll miss me? It's only a couple of weeks. Get a hold of yourself." Quinn smirks, taking a long swig from Santana's coffee cup to her roommates affront.

"Of course not, fuckwit. I hate living with you as much as the next man, but… I guess, well –"

"You're worried Sam isn't going to hate it quite as much," Quinn guesses, cocking her head to the side in thought. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the (drunken) time, Sam and Santana swapping apartments for a few weeks while Sam worked a half-term gig at bar close to where Quinn and Santana lived. Of course, upon waking up and looking at the situation clearly, Quinn knew it probably wouldn't be so good a plan after all. She had known Santana for her entire life, and she knew better than anyone that she would more than likely freak about anything that even whispered of possible commitment or change or loss. But she agreed on behalf of the two of them anyway, because she couldn't conceivably say no to her two favourite blondes.

Unfortunately, she had neglected to mention it to Santana until tonight, and Sam was also scheduled to come round with his own case and large mouth in ten minutes.

Santana frowns, her mouth drooping at the corners. "Well, kind of. I'm going to ask you a proper question now, and I need you to answer seriously."

Quinn nods solemnly.

"Am I a really, really, really shitty roommate?"

Quinn pauses, the question catching her off guard. "Uhh… Uh," she flounders, her face contorting as she bites her lip.

Santana all but wails. "I knew it! Quinn, how could you do this to me? She's going to hate me! She likes me enough now, I know that, but what about when she lives with me for more than two days and realises that I'm not always very nice? What if I throw something at her when she brings me the wrong coffee in the morning and she doesn't know to scootch out the way of it like you, and then she spills it all over her and gets second degree burns? I nearly threw something at her the other day when she was over, and I swear my life flashed before my eyes. All of a sudden, I was in jail for assault. Space, Fabray, space!"

Quinn starts to laugh, but a sharp glare from Santana shuts her up abruptly. "Santana, don't be so stupid. You're not actually that bad, and I'm pretty sure that even if you were, she'd still love you." She laughs out loud, unable to contain herself. "I can't believe you're being such a dick about this, Jesus. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were horribly insecure about your own fucked up commitment issues."

"Fuck off," Santana snaps, her nostrils flaring with anger as she pushes her chair from the table and makes her way over to her suitcase. She messes up the inside, just to spite Quinn.

Silence falls once more in their apartment, and uncomfortably so. Santana zips up her suitcase and it hits the carpet of their apartment with a thud.

"Look, I'm sorry," Quinn says finally, pulling Santana's hunched body around and crushing her into a hug. "I know you're not being a dick on purpose. I know it's not your fault you find it pretty much impossible to fully trust other human beings," she says into Santana's ear.

"Some apology –"

"I'm not finished! And I'm sorry I kind of pushed you into this, though I'm not sorry because I think it'll work out just fine for the both of us."

Santana still isn't hugging her back, and Quinn pins her arms to her sides, determined that she'll receive some mark of affection before they part.

"And I'm just as scared about Brittany liking living with you as you are with me and Sam, believe me." Quinn coughs.

Santana finally relents, and throws her arms around Quinn's neck.

"Whatever, Fabray," she replies nonchalantly as they pull away from one another somewhat brusquely; as if they can't believe what just happened. They stand parallel, awkwardly; until Santana makes an excuse and disappears into her bedroom.

There's a heavy knocking at the door.

"Look at us, we're growing up." Quinn blinks as Santana appears by her side within an instant, suitcase in hand; her dark eyes wide with trepidation. "Good luck, Q."

"And you, dick."

Quinn opens the door and kisses Sam, who puts his own holdalls down with a clunk.

"Trouty," Santana greets him from behind her best friend. "I'm surprised you needed so many bags. I had assumed you'd have room for all your novelty t-shirts in your gargantuan mouth."

Sam chuckles in his laid-back manner and pulls her in for a lazy, one-armed hug. "Nice to see you too, Santana. Blaine's outside in the car, and Britt's at home doing some last minute sorting. We figured you wouldn't want to walk."

Santana nods curtly in response. "Don't you fucking dare have sex in my bed," she barks, before turning away from the two blondes and slamming the door behind her, bumping down the stairs with her suitcase.

"We wouldn't dream of it," Quinn murmurs into Sam's shoulder as he nips at her neck. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

"Motherfucker!" Santana yells, throwing her controller down on the floor with a shout of exasperation. "Bastard cops. Every time, B, every time…"

She takes a slice of pizza and leans back, grumpily. Brittany giggles airily and grabs the controller up from the floor, starting a new game and proving how easy it actually is to evade the police in Liberty City; until Santana knocks the console from her hand and she's shot by a member of the Triad as consequence.

"San…" she whines. Santana silences her with a kiss and a smile returns to her face as she pinches her girlfriend's ass. "That's the best, right there," she muses, relaxing on to the couch and flicking the controller to begin another mission, Santana's head resting on her lap.

"What is?"

"The fact that I'm the only person who's allowed to touch your ass."

Santana pauses, looking up worriedly. "B, have you ever –"

"Taken the subway at five in the evening, yes, I have. And I know that doesn't count." Brittany smiles, and Santana smiles back.

"I'm pretty sure you're a mindreader."

They take turns on the xbox for a little while; Santana still leant heavily across Brittany's body. She's still not very good, and still getting frustrated when Brittany trounces her score and ability to complete dastardly missions, but she's still completely and wholly content.

"Is this what you guys do, then?" Santana breaks the silence with a lightly posed question.

"What, this?"

"Sit around, and play games, and eat pizza?"

Brittany grins as she answers. "Pretty much. Sometimes we watch sports, sometimes we go out, sometimes Sam's friends from work come over and we watch films. We play with Tubs. It's really weird how he's like; shut himself away in Sam's room tonight. He never does that. He normally likes to spend time with us, you know? I hope nobody's left a pack of cigarettes in there," Brittany muses, rubbing her chin in thought.

"Yes," Santana agrees hastily. "Yes."

"Anyway, so sometimes Sam's working, so I call Mercedes from across the hall and we hang out with her boyfriend, eating pizza and watching something... Why? What do you and Quinn do?"

Santana coughs, thinking. "Uh, well. One of us is pretty much always home late if we're not going out, and Quinn made it the rule that whoever _is _home first makes dinner." She rolls her eyes, and Brittany giggles. "I'm not complaining though, because it's usually her and she's a pretty good cook."

"Then what?"

"Uh, we do a bit of work, like run ideas by one another and shit. Then we used to just bitch to each other and sip our wine, but now we bitch to each other and write it down on our blog." Santana blushes, like she always does when she talks about that website.

"Don't be embarrassed," Brittany says, flicking her girlfriend's side. "It's got super popular; especially since you started it out to… what was it?"

"Create a 'who-wore-it-better' poll on this dress we both liked," Santana states, her voice flat. Brittany chuckles again and plants a kiss on her forehead.

"Right, and now people are paying you to go to their restaurants and write mean things about them just so they get mentioned."

Santana breaks their eye contact and looks to the ground, uncomfortable with just how correct Brittany is. She shrugs.

"No, it's really good! Me and Sam are like 'where does all this hatred come from' when we read it sometimes."

"Right," Santana laughs weakly and takes the xbox controller, flipping to a different game.

"Anyway, carry on," Brittany says, bubbly as ever.

"We watch our catchup TV programmes and if it's _Greys_, we cry, and if it's _Girls_, we laugh. Then we go to bed."

"Speaking of which…" Brittany says, shifting underneath Santana's warm body on the couch.

Santana nods. "Yeah, yeah, sure. What's your day like tomorrow?"

"I'm teaching for like, four periods." Brittany groans, and Santana rubs her back in a conciliatorily manner. "Which reminds me, I need to write up my lesson plans."

"Wow. Who'd be a teacher?"

"Nah, it's super rewarding and everything and I love it, it's just I really, really hate doing lesson plans. It never goes the same on paper, if that makes sense," Brittany grumbles, retrieving a thick folder from a shelf and setting it down with a thump. "Do you have a pen?"

Santana reaches for her purse and pulls out a white company pen, wrinkling her nose as her thoughts briefly flit to work. "Wait. I'll do it," she says, picking the folder up off of the table and opening it to the week beginning the eighth of November. When Brittany opens her mouth to protest, she shakes her head and sets her pen on the paper, raising her eyebrow in a 'carry on, then' way. "Come on, you need to go to bed. I like writing, it's hardly a chore…"

"Okay, periods one and two. Second graders, we're doing the snowflake dance so we can perform it in second grade assembly. In the extra materials required bit put loads and loads of paper, because I've decided we're going to make the snowflake outfits ourselves. Like, the kids wear their little white leggings and tops and we make the snowflakes and use the snow glitter, you know what I mean?"

"Got it."

"And for health and safety I guess you should put that we'll be using scissors, but I'm not sure that counts. Uh, I should have some warm up cards somewhere in the back of the folder; just put something about how I'll always look at and complete the warm up cards with the group before we start dancing. Oh, and on the extra notes there should be that if Atlanta tries to cut Lily's hair again then I'll be forced to get her parents and the counsellor involved. She's so lucky I actually stopped her, like Lily has the loveliest long blonde hair. It's so nice I might plan our next production about it, she really truly looks like a fairy. Even you'd believe it, San."

Santana nods seriously. "And periods three and four?"

"Wait, wait. Have you already finished one and two?"

"Yeah."

"Did you use all your fancy words again?"

Grinning, Santana nods her head again.

"Then great!" Brittany claps her hands together. "I'm not teaching periods three and four, so we'll say they're planning sessions. I might just use the studio space to get ready for my next audition. Well, strictly speaking, it's a callback –"

"I know, I know. It's pretty fucking amazing as well Britt, you know that? I can't believe you can just –"

Brittany suddenly turns very quickly on the spot, twisting her body into a tortured yet elegant angular pose; one leg straight and poised, one bent at the knee, one hand languishing on her cheek with the elbow parallel, one arm tossed out in an anguished fist.

"Mit keresek én itt? Azt mondják, hogy a hires lakóm lefogta a férjemet, én meg lecsaptam a fejét. De nem igaz,én ártatlan vagyok. Nem tudom, miért mondja Uncle Sam hogy én tettem. Probáltam a rendörségen megmagyarázni, de nem értették meg…"

Santana chews non-existent gum, snapping her tongue against her teeth. "Yeah, but did you do it?" she says, in a clichéd Chicago accent, raising one eyebrow.

"Nu uh. Not guilty!" Brittany cries, falling to her knees in torment and throwing her hands above her head.

Santana claps and cheers, blowing her girlfriend kisses as she bows and accepts the applause. "I think you've basically got it nailed now, B. We'll run the whole thing through tomorrow, yeah?"

Brittany spins on the spot, fanning her face with her hands. "Why, thank you. Anyway, periods five and six. I have the sophomores, and you know it's just the girls who are on the cheerleading team?"

"Yep."

"Like, they can pick from soccer or lacrosse, dodgeball and tennis and stuff for sports when they turn sixteen. Well, I need permission to take them outside because they have a competition coming up and they need the space to practice, and I said I'd help them choreograph some harder bits because they're the youngest girls on the squad, so you need to write that down… Health and safety, put that their coach is going to be there and making sure none of them fall so badly that they hurt themselves, like, badly… Extra materials, crash mats and handspring pads."

"Yes, yes, yes. Got it, got it, and got it." Santana finishes writing with a flourish of her pen and sets the implements down on the table in front of her. "Now that's out the way…" She waggles her eyebrows and pats her own leg suggestively. _Shit. When did you become so corny?_

"I have to get some sleep, San," Brittany sighs, pushing the pizza box shut and turning the TV off at the wall. It's already one in the morning.

Santana pouts. "I know, I know. It's bedtime." She gets up, stifling a yawn. "You're just going to leave that box there?"

"Uh, yeah? We could have some for breakfast," Brittany smiles blithely, making her way over to the sink to have a glass of water before bed, turning her back on Santana's somewhat disgusted face.

"Well, sure, but you have to refrigerate it! Are you kidding me, B? You could get sick," Santana scolds, her own voice and words taking her by surprise. She claps her hands over her mouth. "Shit. I don't know what just came over me."

Brittany just giggles, taking the box from Santana's outstretched hand and shoving it into the fridge. "Does Quinn run quite a tight ship?"

"I guess," Santana bites her lip, sitting back on the couch as Brittany fusses in the kitchen. "Oh, shit. I left my glass on the counter –"

"Santana, stop. You're at mine, and the rules are –"

"There are no rules?"

"Well, no. That would be silly. The rules are that there are no rules regarding putting glasses away, because that stuff just doesn't matter." Brittany folds her arms and nods defiantly. Santana salutes.

Humming and dancing a little, Brittany skips around the kitchen, getting herself a glass of water and throwing back a capful of mouthwash. Tapping her feet in an imitation of Latin dancing, she shakes her imaginary maracas around their apartment, swilling the liquid round in her mouth.

A wide and genuine smile spreads across Santana's face, and she cheers as Brittany completes another few fierce tap moves. Pulling the blanket up and over herself and settling herself down, she lies on the couch and just watches her girlfriend dance around her apartment. It's sort of perfect.

Brittany stops, her brow furrowing. "Whumdoin?" she mumbles, frowning, unable to fully open her mouth.

"¿_Cómo_?" Santana asks, with a chuckle.

Brittany looks ridiculous, stood aggressively in her duck patterned pyjamas, her mouth full and her eyebrows severe. Santana laughs.

"Whumdoin, Nana?" She tries again before rushing to the kitchen sink and spitting her mouthwash out. Santana pulls the blanket over her head and shakes with laughter. "Santana, what are you doing?"

Santana blinks, her head popping up. "I'm going to bed?"

"That's not where you sleep?"

"Where do I sleep, then?"

"In my bed," Brittany points to the door to her bedroom and stares incredulously at the lump on her couch. "Get up, doofus."

"Like –"

"Girlfriends, yeah?" Brittany's eyes widen in disbelief. "Because we are. Did you hit your head?"

"No, I know, but –"

"It's too much like we're living together?"

Santana nods, thoroughly embarrassed; with Quinn's words echoing unpleasantly around her mind.

Brittany just giggles in her beautiful light way. "Oh, get up. If it makes you feel _any _better, imagine it's like a sort of domesticated paradise. Tomorrow, we're deciding wedding locations. Next week, we can discuss who's carrying our first child," she deadpans, making light of how plain stupid her girlfriend is being.

Santana sort of marvels. "It's like whenever you say shit, it makes sense," she blurts out, losing her spoken eloquence in favour of pure honesty, looking up at Brittany with slight reserve.

"Come on. Let's go to bed,"

Santana gets to her feet, slowly. "Are you sure we have to go straight to sleep?" She rushes up behind Brittany, grabbing her waist and burying her face in the nape of her neck.

Brittany turns and kisses her, smiling, falling backwards through her door and on to her bed. "Of course not."

The next morning, Brittany gets Santana the wrong coffee as they both attempt to ready themselves for the day ahead with the bright winter sunshine filling their apartment and Santana doesn't throw anything at her, or even come close to caring.


End file.
